


Quell Your Fears

by Bronstiel



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gen, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Quarter Quell, Violence, its the Hunger Games okay what did you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 114,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronstiel/pseuds/Bronstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 25th Hunger Games is a big deal for Panem. It's different. This year is the first Quarter Quell, and the Districts get to vote in their own Tributes. Isaac Alldrenn, the male Tribute selected for District Seven, knows it's gonna be rough. But never did he realise that the fight for his life starts from the very moment he steps foot in the Capitol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Boy Rises pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   * Hair brushed and presentable. Check.
>   * Teeth cleaned and white-ish. Sorta.
>   * Clean clothes and semi-shiny shoes on. Yup
>   * Confidence that I wouldn't be chosen for the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games. Nada.
> 


_ Three months before the Quell _

I lay on my back, spread-eagle on the bed, my glasses askew, blood slowly staining my white button down shirt. My breathing was slow, very slow, and even; my heartbeat snail pace and quiet, whilst the blood slowly pooled in my face because it dangled off the side of the bed. My feet were over the opposite side, and they were starting to get pins and needles because they’d been hanging there for so long.

And then finally she entered. The new maid who had only been here a week and who was scheduled to clean the boys dormitories today. She slowly cleaned the others beds, and my eyes followed her progress, watching her bend over and make the beds or crouch down to pick up someone’s laundry and add it to the basket at her hip. She was old-looking, maybe in her forties, which was a rare occurrence here in District Seven, but she hadn’t made anything better of herself than a housemaid, even though she survived the war. My eyes almost narrowed at the thought.

The blood from my death wound had almost soaked my whole shirt now, just the collar and the back to spread too now. My breathing was quiet and slow, and I knew as soon as she looked at me that I would be dead in her eyes. There was no help for someone whose blood had covered the whole front of their shirt.

Finally she straightened up from scrubbing a bedpan; saw me and shrieked, literally _throwing_ her basket into the air and running, screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs, from the room. I could hear her from down the hall when she reached the director’s office telling Mrs. Ferwere that a boy, here, in the community home, had died! And then I heard Mrs. Ferwere’s heels clicking furiously against the linoleum floors as she trots with the distressed maid down to the boy’s dormitories.

And when Mrs. Ferwere saw me, sitting up on my bed, crying and shaking from laughing so hard, my unmarked-chest bare except for the empty bag of red dye taped to my stomach because my blood-stained shirt was on the floor, her face immediately turned purple from rage and I knew that I would get the worst discipline speech ever. And, as always, it started off with Mrs. Ferwere seeing the need to use my full name.

“Isaac Joshua Alldrenn!” she was very severe. I saw some of the other boys slip into the dormitory, some glaring in my direction, some indifferent; others giving me subtle thumbs ups. I noticed my fingers still had dye on them. Without thinking I licked the dye off, sucking gently on my fingers while pretending to listen to Mrs. Ferwere rave, until I had cleaned them. Since I was already on my bed, I leant back into the pillow, adjusted my glasses to a comfortable position, put my arms behind my head and lay there listening to Mrs. Ferwere like I had done it a thousand times. Which is probably because I had.

\----

After I was set to cleaning duty for six months and was slapped across the face three times, all people in the community home were called to the recreation room to see the mandatory viewing that our mayor had informed all in District Seven to watch. President Statia, the Capitol’s monarch, appeared, smiling thinly to the crowd. He had close-cropped grey hair and very deep blue eyes, but he had a sort of fatherly look around him because he was very portly and walked with a swagger that created the image of him rolling. But his eyes were cold and his lips were thin.

He cleared his throat and started a rumbling speech dictating the Dark Days that only finished twenty-five years ago, concluding in The Hunger Games- a gift to the rebelling Districts from our _beloved_ Capitol.

But apparently, this year’s games were going to be special, perhaps themed or maybe have a special requirement of the Districts. Not the normal battle to the death, no, this was our first ever Quarter Quell to celebrate the quarter of one hundred Games the Capitol will get to enjoy. But when he pulled out a shiny wooden box with hundreds of envelopes in it, it seemed they plan for many, _many_ more Quarter Quells than four.

President Statia slit open the very first envelope with a fine pointed dagger and unfolded the paper within it. He read the words written on the heavy waxy paper out to the microphone “Now to honour our first ever Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every District will be made to hold an election and vote on the Tributes who will represent the District.” The crowd of Capitol people on television were screaming in assent, looking excited and hopeful, and why wouldn’t they? It was a new event for them, something exciting, a twist on the thing they love.

I blinked at the screen, and then I looked at the people around me, feeling the tenderness in my swollen cheek from where Mrs Ferwere had slapped me. All the grungy boys with grubby faces and hands, in second-hand clothes and shoes two sizes too big. All the girls with their missing teeth, soiled dresses and dirty knees with their hair greasy and stringy. Then I look at the adults. I see the more motherly carers gathering the younger children into them, assuring the ones who were crying that they’d never vote for them. But I see them glance at me when they think about voting, I get a fleeting glance of Mrs. Ferwere’s satisfied raised eyebrow and I catch the eye of the new maid who had finally come out of hysterics, I realise that there may be a very real chance of them voting for someone in this room. And my guess would be the odds are not in my favour. _  
_

 

_ One and a half months before the Quell _

                It was Saturday today, and that meant no school but chores for me. And today was the day that District Seven would be voting on their Tribute for the twenty-fifth Hunger Games. I went through a checklist in my head of the qualities I possessed for the possibility of being a Tribute this year.

  1. Adults hated me, and only adults were voting.
  2. I have no parents, and the corpses that _were_ my parents were unrespected alcoholics who- yep, you guessed it- everyone hated.
  3. I’m a bad influence on the other kids.
  4. I steal.
  5. I scare people.
  6. I kick puppies (I’m just kidding here, but you may as well put that on the list since everyone hates me anyway).



So I’m pretty much in the Games aren’t I?

                But there were loads of worse kids in my District. I mean, there were those kids who beat up others, ones who bet on who was getting reaped, ones who were so poor and hungry they sold their bodies to older citizens, and those who got pleasure of ratting out the wrongdoers to Peacekeepers. So why wouldn’t the adults vote for them?

                I was in the main market streets of District Seven, dodging around people carrying their heavy lumber and sneakily swiping food like buns and apples off the stalls lining the streets. Of course the shopkeepers saw me do it, but they couldn’t get to me in time to beat me for being a kleptomaniac because I melted into the crowd and artfully timed my pilfering to when they had at least a few customers.

                I suppose I shouldn’t be stealing now that I was trying to win people’s favour but it was second nature to me. I had been ‘shop-lifting’- as Peacekeepers called it, because the stalls are _such_ big _shops_ \- since I could roam the streets alone. It wasn’t something I needed to do; I just enjoyed the thrill of being unstoppable. Sure, I liked the food, it tasted great, but for the amount of times I had been caught and punished, you’d think it wasn’t worth it. The Peacekeepers or the stall-owners themselves either beat me, which is what happened most of the time, or tell the community home and let them deal with me; the delinquent. I had been beaten often, so now I had three broken teeth, a slightly twisted nose and a finger which wasn’t set right when it was broken so now it’s permanently twisted.

                I wandered back to the community hall and saw that now, at noon, adults were filing past me to go to the Justice building and vote on their Tributes. I walked by them, saying hi to some and smiling as sweetly as a tall, ropey, seventeen-year-old can, hoping to win some last-minute favours. Some smiled or waved back, others scowled, and more still were burying their faces in their hands as they thought about what they had to do.

                _It won’t be me_ , I thought, and I believed it because there were worse kids and I lived in good, strong District Seven, and they wouldn’t vote for me because they hated me. No, they would vote to get rid of some person they thought doesn’t deserve to live, a kid who they would want to put out of their misery, or that was so bad they couldn’t remain here living with the rest of us. Yes, that would be the category that the kids they voted for would belong to. _  
_

 

_ Quell _

  * Hair brushed and presentable. Check.
  * Teeth cleaned and white-ish. Sorta.
  * Clean clothes and semi-shiny shoes on. Yup
  * Confidence that I wouldn’t be chosen. Nada.



I walked with the other community kids to the main square, straightening a little girl’s jacket, and telling another seventeen-year-old in the faded, grey orphan dress to keep her head held high. She nodded bravely at me, and we took the lead of the crowd of orphans, lining them all up and telling them to be brave.

See, I’m not that bad. To children at least. Adults I don’t care for, and the law I just don’t respect. But kids? Yeah, I love them.

I stood with the other boys my age, nodding to them and noticing the ones who looked like they were accepting the fact that they could never be chosen, and searching the lost eyes of the others whose faces were closed and pale. In other words, the ones who had acknowledged that they could quite possibly be the ones chosen to die.

Instead of the usual two glass balls at the stage, there were two envelopes, weighted down with silver paperweights stamped with District Seven’s emblem. Four chairs stood at the back of the stage, all occupied. In two sat previous victors, the mentors for this year. One was a sickly morphling addict, the other a brown-skinned Capitol pawn with bleached-green hair and studded ears. Seated next to them was our escort for this year, Cameria, who was chatting animatedly with our mayor.

Then the clock’s bells rang and Mayor Saige stood and walked to the microphone. He was a strict man with cold grey eyes, olive skin and black hair. He told us what he told everyone every year, adding on the Quarter Quell’s requirements at the end, and then introduce Cameria who tottered forward on her massive high heels to the microphone, smiling with her bleached Capitol smile and waving.

She was dressed head-to-toe in butter yellow, and had on a shining wig of metallic gold curls that was shaped into a huge beehive. He hands were adorned with rings, which, even plain, were a great prize here in Seven, but hers were adorned with gems and accents. Ropes of precious stones lined her throat and wrists and ankles, and she had wings tattooed upon her breastbone, probably symbolising her ultimate ditzy freedom. I was aching to run up and rob her of all her possessions.

“Hi!” she called into the microphone, waving ecstatically to us. “I am _so_ excited to be here!” Everyone in Seven knew she was actually being sincere since she got moved up here from District Twelve three years ago.

“Well, let’s not delay any longer and see the lucky two Tributes who your District has volunteered for the Hunger Games this year!” She squealed, and tottered over to the envelopes. “Ladies first!” she slit the envelope and pulled out a white card. She came back to the microphone and spoke in a clear voice, “Gabriella Vulthasson.”

I had never heard of this girl before, and as she came up to the stage, glaring at the crowd, disbelieving that they voted for her, I saw why. She was bone thin, with a baggy dress on that was too short. I didn’t recognise her face but I presumed she was one of the girls who sold themselves for food. Her hair was long and black, and her brown eyes were filling with tears.

“Anything to say, Gabbie?” Cameria held the microphone for Gabriella and I saw her flinch at the nickname. She shook he head, but her anguished sob could be heard through the speakers.

“Okay then. Boy’s turn!” Cameria placed the microphone down and went to collect the other envelope. She came back and I felt pretty safe since they voted on someone who had done crime. All I did was stole occasionally, and that wasn’t _that_ bad. Was it?

Cameria cleared her throat and spoke clearly “Isaac Alldrenn,” into the microphone. I cussed so loudly that the boys near me jumped, but I jogged up to the podium soon enough. “Anything you want to say, dear?” Cameria held the microphone to me. I saw people smirking at my expression, but I turned the joke onto them, the horrible people who voted for me.

“I am _so_ excited!” I gushed. I saw people’s faces fall and stare disbelieving at me as I clutched my hands to my chest and gave the ultimate expression of a person dying of excitement. “Thank you all for giving me the chance to participate in this year’s Quell. I am so happy, gosh, thank you all!” And I spread my arms as if to embrace the whole District. Cameria was near ecstatic tears next to me, but Gabriella just stared at me, incredulous.

Cameria took control of the microphone again, and spoke in a tearful voice, “Wasn’t that _beautiful_? Let’s give a big hand for these two wonderful young people, District Seven!” And she broke into a smattering of Capitol applause while the citizens followed her lead. “Now shake hands,” She gestured to me and Gabriella. I smirked at her.

“Nice to meet you, Gabbie,” I grinned. She gave me a scathing look and she shook my hand with only her thumb and forefinger. I grabbed her whole hand, trying to forget the places it might have been, and pulled her in for a hug. She struggled; all but screaming profanities, and then I released her with a quick shove, sending her tottering a few steps away. Cameria was really crying at our ‘unity’ now, and I grinned at her. She pulled me close under her arm and said into the microphone,

“Wasn’t that _lovely?_ ” she was trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She squeezed my hand in hers and I discreetly slid one of her many rings off. “Say goodbye to your Tributes, people!” And they all remained stony faced as we walked offstage. I waved and blew kisses to them, subtly dropping the ring into my pocket and they all but snarled. The last thing I did was wink at the cameras.

As soon as I entered the waiting room in the Justice building my brave, overjoyed façade faded leaving me brittle and scared. I didn’t imagine what lay ahead of me, nor did I try to wish I hadn’t been chosen. I just stared blankly at the wall, running my fingers over and over again on the velvet couch I was sitting on.

I didn’t expect any visitors, so when there was a knock on the door and a girls’ voice said “Can I come in?” I all but fell off the couch.

“Sure,” I righted myself in time to see a girl slide through the opening. The one I told to keep her head up at the start of the Reaping. I didn’t know what to say, and she just stood there awkwardly, so I said, “Sup?” to get the ball rolling.

“Do you have a District token?” She blurted out. I raised my eyebrows, fingering the ring in my pocket, but I hadn’t thought about it. I guess the thought never concerned me before.

“Nope,” I popped the ‘p’ and smiled wearily. Then I saw her quickly detach a necklace she was wearing and pass it to me without a word. I looked at the grotty, rusty silver chain and the small tarnished disc hanging off the end. On the disc was just the initials _A. L._ in cursive writing. It held nothing else, not even a picture. I raised an eyebrow, thinking of giving it back, but shrugged. I guess I could wear it.

“Thanks,” I said, acting like it was no big deal she probably gave me her most expensive possession. “Be sure to come and retrieve it when I return.” _In a box or not_. The words hung in the air but I let them slide coolly away by fixing her with a penetrative stare.

She had brown eyes, pale, freckly skin and long brown hair that stuck up in irregular angles. It looked like she tried to tame it with combs, but the effects were more like she stuck random combs in her hair because she could.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” She looked at the floor, knotting and unknotting her fingers together.

“Um, I suppose you can have this, since you gave me something.” I tossed her Cameria’s ring. She took one look at it and her eyes widened and she shoved it in her pocket. I grinned sneakily at her and she almost glared back, the surprise arching her eyebrows greatly. The awkward silence after that was all that remained of our pleasantries.

 I couldn’t sit still so I got up and walked around. My fingers ached to do something so I started pulling the combs out of her hair. She started to protest, but I gave her a pointed look, cocking one of my eyebrows, and she stopped, plainly knowing her hair would look better without the combs.

I gave the combs in a neat pile back to her just when a Peacekeeper came to collect the girl. I realised I didn’t know her name. “Wait! What’s your name?” I asked quickly, because she was already getting escorted out. She widened her eyes, probably remembering I had only known her as a community house kid before today and said,

“It’s A-” she starts but her guard forced her from the room, shoving her out the door so hard I hear a thud and her squeal as she falls over onto the fine carpet outside. I sighed, but it didn’t really matter because I didn’t need to know her name, all I needed from her was to know that someone here, at least, is rooting for me.

I struggled to put on the old necklace, and when I finally did I realised it’s so long the disc finished where my sternum ends, and it felt weird and cold against my skin. No one else came in to see me, so in the end when Cameria comes to collect me I was lying with my back on the couch, feet on the wall, tugging on my curly black hair with the necklace between my nose and upper-lip. But I grinned like she lit up my world when she walked in, so she just smiled ostentatiously back and ushered me out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets better later on, I promise.


	2. A Plant Called Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You scared?” he asked. I would guess that normally Capitol people don’t ask Tributes if they were scared. Indeed, my estimate would be they wouldn’t care about our feelings at all, but this casual question had me stopped in my tracks.
> 
> Yes, I was terrified. I would have been quivering in my boots from the second they called out “Isaac Alldrenn” if I hadn't had my humour to fall back on. So now, when I knew I couldn’t give that answer, I said one of the biggest lies I had ever spoken.
> 
> “No, I am not afraid.” I answered.

“Chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga,” I muttered under my breath, staring out the window of the train and watching as the trees of District Seven passed me with unnatural speed. We had just boarded the train after me smiling and waving at the cameras and Gabriella scowling and ducking her head at the station. I was seated at a window seat, running my fingers around the rim of a clear glass filled with extraordinarily orange juice with one hand, the other neatly tucked under my chin. My glasses were slightly askew, the effect being slightly uncomfortable on my nose, but liveable.

“Now, Ike and Gabbie,” Cameria said when she entered the compartment Gabriella and I were in. It took me a moment to realise the ‘Ike’ she was referring to was me. I looked at her, sipping my juice but Gabriella just continued to stare at her knees. “It’s time to meet your mentors! Isn’t that exciting?” Cameria smiled at us, showing her artificially whitened teeth. She still hadn’t noticed her missing ring. Our mentors walked in, one smiling at us from under his acid-green hair, the other staring into space as a Capitol attendant helped her into a seat at the vast table.

“Come and join us, guys,” The green-haired man said. I walked tentatively to the table and took a seat, Cameria immediately sitting next to me, and Gabriella walked over sullenly and sat cross-legged in the seat opposite the morphling-addict. “I’m Rowan,” the man continued. He had rich brown skin, blue eyes that could only have some from contacts, studded ears and on his teeth were what looked like diamonds, a small gem on every tooth.  And his green hair, of course. He must love going to the Capitol.

“This is Lexandra,” The Capitol assistant said, gesturing to the small woman. She had limp, greasy blond hair and eyes that seemed to swallow her face. She didn’t even react to her name, just sat there stirring air with her fingers. Inwardly I shuddered, thanking the stars that I didn’t have Lexandra as a mentor.

“Now before we start anything serious,” Cameria chirped from beside me. “Let’s have afternoon tea!” I saw Gabriella look at her with a confused stare, and felt my own brow crease. Afternoon tea? Was that a special brand of drink that you only had in the afternoon, or a tea made of a plant called ‘afternoon’?

“What’s afternoon tea?” I asked Cameria. She turned to me shocked, but then let out a laugh and put her arm around me, squeezing me to her artificial bosom.

“Oh, Isaac, you’re so funny!” She roared with laughter. I looked with alarm to Gabriella who shrugged and then reminded herself not to interact with me and looked away quickly. So I pretended to laugh too. Rowan was chuckling and even Lexandra seemed to catch up to our moment for a second, letting out a squeak of a laugh.

It turns out afternoon tea was food, almost like lunch, in the afternoon. Like a snack. Tea was served, though, as well as jugs of juice so cold condensation was running down the sides of the jugs and drinks that were fizzing with bubbles. There were little cakes, iced biscuits, fresh loaves of bread, fresh fruit, soups, sandwiches, pastas, meats and dipping sauces. I’m pretty sure it was more than Gabriella ever had to eat in her life.

She loaded her plate ferociously until it was full, and then didn’t even glance at her knife and fork. She ate by the handful, cramming it into her mouth at the same speed as the train was travelling, and swallowing it just as quick. I tried not to watch the starved girl eat, thinking of how she would probably just throw it up tonight when the richness of this splendour caught up to her. I had always been hungry, but since I stole and had regular meals, I guess I was never as hungry as Gabriella. She must have lived on the streets, where no one had spare food, even a scrap, to give the gutter-people.

I still ate until I was about to burst, though, sometimes with, sometimes without my cutlery, and even then Gabriella was still eating. Cameria had left a while ago, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, looking faintly green. Lexandra was painting swirls in the food that had spilled over from Gabriella’s plate or food that had fallen from the starving girl’s mouth. Rowan was still here too, watching me accusingly, either studying me for the Games or squinting in the blinding rays of my awesomeness.  Lexandra’s assistant had left shortly after Cameria, but I could see his yellow hair through the glass door into the next compartment where he was sitting, assumedly waiting close by in case Lexandra needed him. Rowan ate a small amount, but Lexandra didn’t eat anything. By all the pockmarks near the crease in her arm and the catheter dangling off a piece of tape, I guessed she would never eat with us.

Finally Gabriella stopped eating and wiped her face on her dress, obviously forgetting that we had napkins here on the train. Lexandra’s assistant came back in and gestured for a Capitol attendant to start cleaning. I could see they were struggling to keep their faces blank. I smiled at the thought of them getting fired.

“So, Isaac,” Rowan said. I turned to him and raised my eyebrows. “Can I call you Ike?” I remained impassive, though I guess he took it as a yes. “Okay, then, Ike, what can you do? Anything special?” I thought for a moment.

“My fashion sense is impeccable.” I gestured to the stiff, dull grey reaping clothes us orphans had to wear to the Reaping every year, which were probably the ugliest things in the world, save Gabriella’s dress.

Rowan burst out laughing, Lexandra and her assistant following suit, but Gabriella stood up, looking furious. “You think this is a game, don’t you?” she snarled at me.

“It’s called the Hunger _Games_ for a reason,” I stated back. I saw her colour rise is her doughy cheeks.

“You know what? I bet you’re just going to die on the _first day_ , probably at the bloodbath, because you’re too busy mucking around to listen to your mentor!” She shrieked at me. I raised a hand to one side of my mouth, pretending to whisper to her.

“No offence, but I don’t think your mentor will be telling you much, so fair game.” I looked pointedly in Lexandra’s direction, and while her assistant let out an outraged ‘hey!’, Lexandra didn’t as much as blink in my direction.

“Oh my _gosh_ , I’m just going to kill you my _self_!” Gabriella stormed, and just when I thought maybe she _would_ actually leap over the table at me, the colour in her cheeks went from red to green, and I had just enough time to dive under the table with Rowan to avoid getting splattered as Gabriella vomited right on the table.

“Fast reflexes, _check_.” Rowan said to me under the table, giving me another diamond-studded smile. I turned my face away, though, and didn’t smile back. I didn’t want to think about the Games yet. I was too terrified.

 ----

Later Cameria took me to the lounge cart of the train, where she said we would watch the replay of the Reaping. We had to walk through the dining cart to get there, and all I could smell was disinfectant. When we reached it, I took central perch on the couch, pretending to be excited, whilst really just zoning out. Gabriella came in too, in tow of Rowan, but Lexandra and her assistant were absent. Cameria turned on the TV, which took up about half the wall space, and we saw the two announcers for this year’s Games.

They were nothing special, in Capitol terms. One was a lady who had been the Interviewer for the last five years, and the other the official announcer since the Games started. The lady was a should-be-retired bimbo who wore skimpy leotards and had actual rabbit-ears and a cotton-bud tail on her body. I was repulsed. The man had an elaborate hairstyle, creative eyebrows and something funky going on with his clothing, but other than that, nothing else was really going for them. They weren’t very good, and the lady was all about screen-time, whilst the man, who was overweight and I bet still lived with his mother, just sat there, read off a piece of paper, and stared at the lady’s exposed legs.

Their names were Bunny Crosswire and Emlyn Fuut. Sadly, the man’s name was the one that started with B.

They started at District One, showing us the Tributes for the first ever Quarter Quell. I pretended to watch, zoning out after seeing the first girl chosen. She was a monster, that’s all I could depict before I shut my eyes tight. The majority of the rest of the time I zoned out but sometimes catching a Tribute, or some detail about them. The girl from Three who needed to be thrown on stage because she had tried to run when they called her name. The boy from Five, called Jerome Berhich who, like Lexandra, needed to be guided up to the stage because he had some sort of mental disorder.

I laughed when Gabriella got chosen, just to spite her, but I was stabbed by twinge of guilt when I saw the tears that had filled her eyes when she was Reaped reflected in the eyes of my competitor now, as she watched herself chosen for death again. Then there I was, bounding up the steps after they beeped out my swearing, grinning and smiling at the crowd, waving and beaming at the camera. Cameria squeezed me around the shoulders then, taking a moment to get her eyes off the camera to smile warmly at me.  I wanted to puke, but remembering Gabriella already doing that for me today, I decided to let the Capitol save their precious carpet in the lounge cart.

On to more Tributes. The boy from Eight, named Marhkuhs who must have been eighteen, who looked like he lived on the streets and had something wrong with his limbs. The Twins from Eleven, who everyone booed at when they stood on stage. And, the last person I noticed was the boy from Twelve who, like me, looked betrayed at first but then thanked his District and blew kisses to the crowd. Then they all, like me, were locked in the Justice Building until they would arrive at the Capitol. And I would see them all tomorrow night.

\----

The train had showers. With buttons. Tho only shower I had ever seen was when the Capitol did a documentary of one of the previous Victor’s bedroom at the Capitol, and for some reason filmed the shower. It was a weird doco, but the school had wanted us educated in case we ever went to the Capitol. I guess I should be thankful.

I walked into the glass-walled shower, looking at the buttons. There were no inscriptions or anything to tell what the buttons did, so, experimentally, I pressed one. It lit up and a steam filled the shower box so quickly I thought my glasses had gone cloudy until I removed them. I stripped off then, thinking there was no time like the present for a shower, and enjoyed a steam bath. I pressed the steam button again and the showerhead seemed to suck up the steam, leaving me with lovely exfoliated skin, which would be so helpful in the Hunger Games. But it felt nice. I pressed another button and this time the showerhead doused me in some thick golden gel that made me look like I was made of jelly. Now I definitely had to find the water button.

An hour-long shower later, which was excellent therapy to block out unwanted thoughts- like the fact the one of the twenty three other kids I just saw on the screen may kill me- I walked in my room smelling like flowers and mangos and rummaged through my drawers. There were entire drawers dedicated to undergarments and socks, another for shirts. I eventually found a white tee, black leather jacket (I felt fancy), some pants made out of a material that I’d never felt before and, because the jacket made me feel posh, I put on a trilby hat that made my curly black hair explode around the rim of it. I had to keep my frameless glasses on, though; my eyes strained too much when I tried to take them off, and the last thing I needed was to go blind before the arena. I put on the necklace, and I stayed barefoot because I liked the feel of the carpet on my feet and posed in front of the mirror for a while. Then, when Cameria came and called me for dinner, complementing me on my style, I accepted the complements graciously. And when I saw Gabriella with her clean hair and jumper/jeans getup, I smirked as she gaped at my hat. The only thing I said was, “Trust in my fashion sense now, disbeliever?”, and doffed my hat to her, bowing. She flung her hair over her shoulder furiously, blushing at her bowl.

“You’re still an idiot,” she growled. I laughed and took a seat next to Cameria, who was patting the seat next to her like an excited dog wagged its tail.

“Hey Gab,” I said, and Gabriella looked up, about to snap at me. I cut her off. “This,” I held up the pronged bit of cutlery “Is a fork. You stab and eat with it.” I mimed eating with the fork. I repeated twice more, both for spoon and knife, and by then Gabriella had turned a shade of red I had never seen.

“You little-” she snarled, reaching over the table at me, but Cameria cut her off.

“Now, _dear_ ,” she said in a clipped voice “He was only trying to help you, sugar,” Cameria’s eyes were flashing and I smiled sweetly at Gabriella from behind Cameria’s protective arm. “And, Panem forgive me, you _need_ to learn even the littlest bit of etiquette if you are to dine at the Capitol.” Gabriella glared, but Rowan put his arm up.

“Now, now, Cammie,” he said, easy-going as ever, “She’s fine, she just needs some... encouragement, that’s all.” He smiled at Gabriella, and she maybe didn’t look _quite_ as furious. Then dinner was served, and I saw her pick up the fork, narrowing her eyes at it. I felt an unwelcome stab of pity at this girl in front of me who had never lived in a house, let alone handled a fork. Rowan scooted closer to her and showed her how to hold it and what to do with it.

“Excited?” Cameria asked me. I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, yeah.” I quipped so sarcastically I could feel Gabriella’s hair stand up on her neck. But, somehow, I don’t think Cameria got the meaning across. She just told me that of course I was in a baby voice and cooed at me. I had no idea why and I looked at her incredulously, but then Lexandra’s assistant stopped me in my tracks with a question that would make or break me.

“You scared?” he asked. I would guess that normally Capitol people don’t ask Tributes if they were scared. Indeed, my estimate would be they wouldn’t care about our feelings at all, but this casual question had me stopped in my tracks. The attendant wasn’t even looking at me; as always, he was gazing forlornly at the spaced-out Lexandra seated next to him. But, for some reason, I _had_ to answer his question.

Yes, I was terrified. If I hadn’t had years of being an orphan and pranking and joking as my shield, my way of life, I would have been quivering in my boots from the second they called out “Isaac Alldrenn”, but as it was I was only keeping the casual allure because I had to, for myself, to make _myself_ believe that I was confident. So now, when I knew I couldn’t give that answer, I said one of the biggest lies I had ever spoken.

“No, I am not afraid.” I answered blandly, quietly. But I repeated louder. “I’m not scared.” I almost yelled it now. They didn’t even look at me, and the Capitol attendant didn’t seem to register my response, nodding either to me or to Lexandra.

I ate furiously then, stabbing the chicken in orange sauce like it was one of my opponents. The thought made me sick, so I moved to noodles, but then I couldn’t eat anymore because everything I ate made me feel like I was eating a human body part. Apricots had the texture of ears. Walnuts looked like mini-brains. Carrots were fingers, and don’t even get me started on the turkey liver or the noodles.

I excused myself, walked calmly to my room, stripped into my undergarments and crawled into my bed, feeling sick. They had forced me to think about the future before I had too, and now I was scared. I was curled up into a tight ball, shaking and feeling nauseated. I bit into my pillow and tried to forget about it but I couldn’t. I had never thought of death, but now, because it was imminent, I was compelled to start imagining what it would be like. How would I die? Decapitation would be quick, I supposed, though not a lot of them happened in the Hunger Games. It always seemed to be stabbings or broken necks, which would hurt a lot.

Many hours later I was still awake. Very, very awake. I sat up, feeling the necklace I hadn’t taken off slide around my neck, and found adrenaline pulsing through my veins, probably from all the death scenes I had imagined for myself and my body felt the need to run and keep running. I paced my room, and then decided to order a drink. That would be safe, wouldn’t it? I walked outside my room, retreating quickly when I realised all I was in was underwear and a tarnished necklace, then reappearing in the hall dressed in a robe made of soft, downy material. I found a Capitol servant quickly enough, and she gave me a startled look, like, _why is this kid up at 3am_? even though she looked maybe nineteen herself, but it quickly diluted into the blank, _how may I help you_? look they always had.

“What’s your most calming drink?” I asked.

“Probably warm milk, sir.” She said in monotone.

“Eugh, boring. Anything with flavour?” I noted the annoyance that flashed over her face.

“Hot chocolate, if you’d like that better, _sir_.” She said vindictively, like I had offended her as I insulted the milk. I smirked, said yes, and wandered into the lounge compartment to wait. I sat on the couch like I had in the Justice Building- necklace between my nose and upper-lip, feet dangling over the back of the lush couch, fingers running through my hair, combing out the knots and feeling the curls spring back to my head as I uncoiled them. I watched the shadows of trees rush past the window, knowing they weren’t my trees but unfamiliar ones. I hoped there were trees in the Games.

I flinched at the thought just as the attendant walked in with my hot chocolate. She had applied generous amounts of some sort of stiff cream to the top, along with what looked like chocolate shavings and a wafer. I raised my eyebrows in appreciation and smiled at the lady. Her stiff manor broke and she smiled back warmly, I supposed she was excited to be talking to a potential victor. Ha, a potential victor, yeah, sure. I meant a Tribute, somebody that will be famous for a week before he dies.

She sat down next to me, and I mean _right_ next to me, as I started drinking. I lifted the wafer out and chewed, loving the taste. “Mmm,” I hummed to her, and she beamed at me. I used the rest of the wafer to get the cream off and then greedily sucked the mug dry. “Can I have another?” I asked her eagerly, licking my lips and thinking of the taste.

“Sure, sweetheart,” she said, and I almost gagged. She left me to refill my mug, touching my shoulder as she got up, and I looked around, trying to diffuse the moment where someone from the Capitol was flirting with me. And suddenly, I saw Gabriella standing in the dark corner of the room, in a white nightgown, looking at me incredulously. I suddenly realised what it looked like I was doing, sitting with a Capitol girl, having her flirt with me. I grinned like a Cheshire cat at her.

“Jealous?” I asked, and she blushed beetroot red.

“N-no! How gross!” I guess a girl who sold herself for food wasn’t good at confrontation. I let the taunting look leave my face and let it slide of back into neutral. I rested the back of my head against the couch, and was surprised to see Gabriella take the seat next to me. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked tentatively.

“No way could I sleep,” I said back, looking at her from under my glasses. She almost smiled in agreement. I guess she was over the whole ‘ignore Isaac ‘ thing she had going on. It didn’t last long.

Maybe she just craved human compassion in the long hours before our deaths.

“Well, you might want to sleep, keep your strength up. Actually, scratch that, don’t sleep, be weak, and die.” Okay, maybe she still hated me. I glared, about to respond, when my hot chocolate came. I snatched it off the attendant, stood, smeared cream on Gabriella’s face, and went to my room.

I drank my hot chocolate slowly, trying to calm down and I did. I crawled into bed again, and when my door creaked open, I sat up and threw my mug at the shadowy figure standing there. They shut the door just in time, the mug shattering against the mirror on the back of the door, which, in turn, made the mirror break into millions of reflective pieces that landed on the carpet. I didn’t know who wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t care. Right now all I wanted to do was sleep.


	3. Meeting My Dead Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where were you?” Gabriella snapped. I gestured to the Tributes in line behind our carriage.
> 
> “Talking.” I answered. She gave a surprised look to the string of carriages.
> 
> “With them?” she looked aghast.
> 
> “No, with the President,” I rolled my eyes, feeling slightly offended on behalf of the people I just met. “They’re people too, Gabbie”

Cameria came in the next morning to wake me up, and I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. The glass had inexplicably been removed from the carpet in front of the door, but word of my outburst must have made rounds on the train because she was extra quiet and wouldn’t meet my eye. But I still smiled and acted like I was happy to be here, and I’m pretty sure she forgot about it soon enough. She said she had woken me because there was only an hour until we got to the Capitol, and I needed to be fed and dressed before then. She left me after to, in her words, ‘Fashionably astonish them all again’, and I took a short shower, trying my best to pick buttons that wouldn’t make me lose two layers of skin or dye my body blue.

I emerged to the dining cart in a simple white shirt, brown pants, a brown jacket, and my token, of course. I assumed they’d make me wear shoes as I left the train, so I took the most expensive pair I could from the cupboard, knee-high brown leather, and stuck them under my pants. I ate briskly, some sort of grainy-stew type of thing, and then daydreamed at the table while Rowan and Gabriella talked. They seemed to be getting chummy.

And then we were in a tunnel, and I was out of my seat and at the window, wanting to get my first actual glimpse of the Capitol as close as I could. And then there it was, just the train station, but I was surrounded by people dressed so crazily I couldn’t even begin to describe it.

We were off the train and into a car in less than ten seconds, but that was enough for me to wave and smile at the crowd and grab onto hands that were reaching over the railings at me, to wink at girls and women in the crowd and listen to the screams and cries of all those who were begging for my death.

When I got into the car I was shaking so hard, my hands trembling so much I dropped the drink they gave to me, and it spilled all over the thick carpeting on the floor of the vehicle. I didn’t want it anyway. Gabriella was, once again, looking at me in disgust, but I just stared out the blackened window as we drove along the streets that were filled to the max with people behind roped areas, just trying to get a glimpse of this year’s entertainment.

\----

My prep team, it seemed, were less than excited to see me. They were freakish: like jewel-encrusted snakes slithering and plucking at my clothes and hair. When I had met them they had taken one look at my unruly hair, chipped teeth, pale skin and crooked nose and shrieked, running around like headless chickens until the oldest had calmed them down and set them to work on me.

They were triplets, shamelessly named Shinette, Lizette and Barette, were identical except for hair, eye-colour and gem placement. I think they were a little addicted to the miniature crystals implanted into their skin because there were so many on their bodies they were almost human-shaped disco balls. Shinette, the youngest, had cropped metallic-blue hair with a long side fringe covering one of her boring blue eyes, and her gems that were embedded in her skin covered both her arms, shoulder to wrist. Barette, the middle triplet, had sea-green hair that was slicked straight back and down so it reached his hips, and had yellow eyes, the tiny gems covering his eyelids and winged them right to the hairline beside his temple, which made the shine in his eyes stand out. Lizette was the oldest, and had bone-white hair that stuck upon his head like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He had dopey brown eyes and had gems studded along his thighs and legs down to his ankles in swirls, which were very visible because of his very short shorts. Actually, the thought I got was more; ‘I didn’t know underwear came in leather.’

They made me lie on a metal table, stripped me down, took my necklace and then they ‘fixed’ me, as they told me multiple times during the process. They re-broke and healed my nose straight in ten seconds, did the same to my finger, capped my broken teeth and then proceeded to whiten them. They put two drops of some clear liquid into each of my eyes and proceeded to throw away my glasses without a second thought, much to my broken protest. They evenly tanned my skin so I didn’t look as white as the walls, filed and manicured my nails, waxed the hair from under my arms, moisturised my skin and generally made me more ‘appealing’, as they kept telling me, over and over.

“So,” Barette walked around me, inspecting my hair, pulling on the curls and letting them spring back into place. It felt wrong to have other hands do that besides my own. I jerked away from his touch, as I had already down multiple times but now, instead of taking offence, he just frowned viciously at me. “What do we do with... this?” he waved a disgusted hand over my curls and I protectively latched on to as much of my hair as I could clutch.

“I suppose we could... shave it?” Shinette looked doubtfully at my dark tresses, and picked up a shearer in anticipation. I saw Lizette nod thoughtfully and Shinette approached me, the shearer’s whirring in her hands.

“No way!” I snarled, clamouring off the metal table and running around to the opposite side of the to Shinette. She clicked her tongue in frustration. I felt very naked, but right now it wasn’t my top priority. I liked my hair: it was my stress reliever; whenever I was anxious I plucked it and it kept me calm... in most situations. I wanted to keep it, and there was no way they were going to shave me bald. I picked up a steel tray, quickly spilling all the metal, wooden and plastic instruments from it, and held it in front of me like a shield. “You may cut it shorter, but no shaving. Nothing above the jaw line.” I sneered at them all, daring them to approach me. But they just sighed, and Shinette slammed the shearers down on another metal tray

“ _Fine_!” She shrieked, throwing up her hands. None of them said any more, but I let them cut my hair to a level I agreed to, and then they proceeded to make me up for the Tribute Parade. The last thing they did before they made me up so I could meet my stylist was slather some minty-smelling cream onto my face, which I had to leave on for an hour.

“What’s it do?” I examined it in the mirror. It was covering most of my face like a beard. Lizette gave a huge condescending sigh, which I ignored, but Barette answered me.

“It keeps the hair on your face from growing. So you don’t look like a hobo in the arena.” He nodded earnestly at me, and at least I knew one of them still liked me. I smiled at him, having absolutely no clue what a ‘hobo’ was, and actually saw something besides annoyance in his earnest yellow eyes.

They had painted what I assumed to be grass on my feet to about half-way up my shins, though they coloured the last centimetre or so of my feet in an earth-brown colour. They had covered the space between the grass and about halfway up my chest in a nutty-brown colour, and then gone for a leaf green all the way up from my sternum, including my face. They had given me green contacts that stung my eyes and made me blink a lot and had put a rinse through my hair that had turned the black into a washed-out dark-green. I prayed I wasn’t going to be a tree like the previous Tributes had been. I had to stand for five minutes while I dried, not allowed to touch anything, and reeking of fresh paint.

Then, at last, I got to meet my stylist. She walked in, shining. Like literally. She was _literally_ shining. Her hair was an inky black waterfall that fell to her knees, somehow dotted with real shining pinpricks of light so it looked like the night sky. Her skin was completely painted the colour of molten moonlight, which, let me tell you, looked very, _very_ strange. Her eyes were grey, and she was wearing a tight silver jumpsuit that shined from neck to wrist to where it disappeared into her knee-high boots of the same hue. Her lips were the dark blue of a summer night’s sky and her nails were mini solar systems curved into half-moons. I sucked in a breath as she walked in and grimaced. I had been hoping against hope that, this year, we wouldn’t have Celestial Shimmer- yes, that’s actually her name, whether she changed it to suit her look or not, I don’t know- because she makes us into trees. But maybe this year she wouldn’t. Maybe- I looked down at my painted body and swore out loud. Damn it, we were going to be trees.

In half an hour, I was dressed as a tree. I had some sort of rough, clingy material that looked exactly like tree bark spaced unevenly from mid-calf to the bottom of my ribs. My skin was bare everywhere else, the tree bark spaced in places to show my flat stomach or lower back. Above the bark there was a paper-thin, unbreakable wire wrapped around my torso and arms, with real leaves that tickled my skin attached to it. They floated in a nonexistent wind, tickling and irritating my skin but not wiping off the green paint. I also had some of the fluttering leaves entwined in my hair, but they didn’t annoy half as much as the ones on my body.

I glowered at the mirror, and then at Celestial Shimmer as she stared, repulsed, at my hair, which she had been doing for the past fourty-five minutes as she placed the leaves into my curls. Why did everyone hate it? She opened her mouth and turned to Lizette, but I snapped, “I didn’t let them shave it,” at her. She stared at me, disgusted, and then rolled her grey eyes. I had been making snarky remarks the whole time she was dressing me, but she had not said a word to me, only talked to my stylists. She had a high voice that did not match her impressive demeanour, and she always complained that she had horrible Tributes to dress.

She frog-marched me out to the elevator, and, as we reached a place where there were those creepy servants or Capitol Attendants were, suddenly she loved me. She had her arm around my shoulders and started talking to me about my District and what I did while we were walking (though I was really to startle to answer her), but as soon as the elevator doors shut, she stepped as far away from me as she could and stared out of the glass wall.

The same thing happened when we reached the bottom, I was guided out by the merry Celestial Shimmer and she led me to where my chariot was. Gabriella was not here yet, but most of the other Tributes were arranged in pairs around their chariots.

Celestial left me with a silent glare and stalked off, the heels of her boots clicking on the rough concrete floor. I was bored and felt the need to annoy someone (since I hadn’t annoyed others my age for about two days), so I impulsively decided to set of to the carriage behind of me.

“Hi,” I said, to the two Tributes of District Eight as they hung around their chariot. I had noticed this boy when I watched the replay of the Reaping. He had strangely long limbs, and the starved look of someone who lived on the streets. But, nevertheless, he smiled tauntingly as he looked at me.

“Hey,” he said back, blinking his charcoaled eyes at me. The girl from his District turned her back on us, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. He rolled one of his long arms at me, showing how double-jointed it was. I was kind of grossed out, to be honest. “Name?” he inquired.

“Isaac,” I drew out the a’s in my name and clicked my throat at the 'c'. “You?”

“Marhkuhs, with two h’s, and a k.” He replied.

“That’s a mouthful to say whenever you introduce yourself,” I answered back, seeing if I could rile him up. He just chuckled easily, and I left Marhkuhs with two h’s and a k with a genuine smile and a wave, and walked on to the next carriage.

District Nine weren’t nearly as warm as Eight, yet I found joy in spooking on of their horses and causing both Tributes to yell profanities at me and I slunk away, laughing to myself. Ten scared me too much, both Tributes being monstrous, so I moved on quickly, but I got more nice people at Eleven.

The Twins I had seen at the Reaping both had dark skin, about the same rich brown as the tree trunk wrapped around my waist, and had hair as black as pitch. Their eyes were a tawny golden colour, and they were both dressed in overalls complete with studded boots and cowboy hats. “Hi,” I said tentatively, still recovering from the glares I got from Nine and Ten.

“Hi,” the girl chirped to me, smiling toothily. I had no idea how these two fifteen-year-olds got booed onto stage, but they seemed perfectly adorable to me.

“Howdy,” the boy said at the same time as his sister. They both had curling hair, only the girls fell to her lower back and the boy’s was cut short at the back.

“I’m Isaac,” I said, gaining my confidence fast. These two were probably the most unthreatening people I had ever seen.

“I’m Rhodo,” the boy said, holding out his hand for me to take. I shook it hesitantly, thinking he was going to try and break my hand or something, but all he did was shake it.

“I’m Honey,” the girl said sweetly.

“As in Suckle,” her brother added, grinning. I looked at him, confused.

“Yeah, Honeysuckle. And his,” Honey jerked her finger in Rhodo’s direction “Is as in Rhododendron.” I mentally clapped a hand to my forehead, realising that the plants they were reciting were their full names.

“Right." I said, "Well, my full name is Isaac... just Isaac.” I smiled and moved on to the last carriage, and leant casually against the coal-black horse. Both the Tribute’s costumes were definitely worse than mine. The girl was in a neon-yellow two-piece coal mining outfit, the first piece of which barely covered her breasts and the second piece barely reached the tops of her thighs. She was covered with black dust, and her long red hair was tangled. The boy, who was sitting on the side of the carriage, had, again, neon-yellow clothing that was just shorts and dust, his black hair snarled. They both had heavy black liner and grey eyeshadow around their eyes.

“Hi,” I said, making the girl jump and the boy turn his head sharply. The boy smiled mischievously at me but the girl just greased me off. “I’m Isaac,” I said to the boy, as he seemed to be the civil one. He stood up, and I noticed how similar in height we were. When he faced me, all I had to do was look straight ahead and I would be staring into eerily light grey eyes.

“Hi,” he said “I’m Jonathan. And that,” he pointed to the red-headed girl that was his District partner “Is Gracie. Right, Gracie?” The girl turned and glared at Jonathan, who was grinning at her, though the dirty look was softer than the one she had given me.

“It’s Gracewyn, Jon, you know how I hate being called Gracie. Now come back over here and quit talking to Jack.” She glared at me again.

“It’s Isaac, Gracie.” I drew out the ‘r’, knowing very well that she had known my name when she had called me Jack. I turned back to Jonathan, who was still fully facing me. “So, coal mining. Must be fun if all the girls wear that.” I nodded in Gracewyn’s direction. She huffed and flipped me off, turning her back on us. Jonathan, for his part, grinned at me, not even swayed by his partner's behaviour.

“Sadly, we don’t actually wear this when we work. And I’m guessing,” he waved an airy hand like we were talking about the weather. “That your trees don’t look exactly like your representing them.” I looked down at my green torso and smirked at him. “Right you are.” I answered.

I said goodbye to Jonathan and  walked slowly back to my own carriage, where I found Gabriella waiting for me. “Hey, hey,” I said as I walked up. I noticed a glint of relief in her eyes before she snapped at me.

“Where were you?” she snapped. I gestured to the Tributes in line behind our carriage.

“Talking.” I answered. She gave a surprised look to the string of carriages.

“With them?” she looked aghast.

“No, with the President,” I rolled my eyes, feeling slightly offended on behalf of the people I just met. “They’re people too, Gabbie” I added. She anrrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to retort when a voice came over a speaker, telling all us Tributes to board our carriages. I looked around for our stylists, thinking they would have some last minute tips for us, but they were nowhere to be seen. I gave Gabriella a quick look over and saw she was practically as bare as me. Her tree-trunk pants wound higher than mine, the brown, sinewy material covering most of her breasts and stopping there. She was wearing green contacts, like me, and her hair was also a dull, washed out green, mirroring mine. Basically, we could have been the same tree.

I leapt up onto the carriage and, being the gentleman I am, offered Gabriella a hand up after me. She put her hand in mine, bewildered, and I helped her up steadily onto the carriage. She looked at me shrewdly, trying to figure out my alternate angle. But I just let go of her hand and she blinked and looked away, pretending to watch the monsters from One roll out, waving and flexing to the crowd.


	4. All Dressed Up and Everywhere to Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I returned to our table, Marhkuhs said fiercely “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His eyes were angry, either at me for being pitying or at himself, I couldn’t tell. But there was one thing I did know; Marhkuhs was lying. Behind those eyes, I could see my own terror reflected clearly.
> 
> “Me neither,” I said indifferently, but he held my gaze and I knew he saw that I was lying, too.

As the Tributes from Six rolled out, my hands started shaking again. I coughed and clenched my fists. I stared at our horses, which were the same colour as the trunk wrapped around my waist and I could hear the crowd roaring as this year’s sacrifices rolled out. I felt sick, like my stomach was about to leave my body, and my heart was beating in my mouth and in my thumbs. I hoped my sweat didn’t make my makeup run.

“Do we pose or something?” I asked, pleased to hear I disguised the tremor in my voice. Gabriella shrugged, not looking at me, so as our horses started rolling out, I struck a ridiculous tree pose and grinned, lips stretching wide over my newly white teeth, as the crowd cheered, clenching my teeth together hard so they would stop chattering. _I’m not scared, I’m not scared,_ I kept chanting in my head. The vibrating cart under my feet felt funny and I had to keep shifting my feet, but that was okay because that meant I could change pose as well. I shut my eyes, trying to convince myself that I was back on the train inside the roaring shower. It didn’t help.

About halfway round the track I opened my eyes and glanced sideways at Gabriella. Whilst I was balancing on one leg and had my arms raised, she was standing stock-still and was glaring, chin up, at the crowd. I half wanted to poke her to see if we could start a fight on the carriages, but instead I said, “You’re not going to win people over if you just stand there.” I stood down and looked critically at her. Gabriella turned her ferocious eyes on me, but I just raised my eyebrows in response.

“Pose with me!” I commanded, pointing at her authoritatively but my lips twitched as I tried to hold back a smile.

She turned away. “No,” she answered just as firmly.

“Fine!” I cried, grinning. I posed again, laughing and waving to the crowd when I fell or wobbled. Some waved back, but we didn’t hold much attention. I didn’t mind. I hoped I was the only one who could see my hands shaking.

When we reached the apex of the City Circle, our ride in the carriages came to a halt, lining up so we could see the President. President Statia was, if possible, even more fatherly in person. He smiled kindly at all us Tributes (like he wasn’t sending us to our deaths, just inviting us to his home for a week), greeted Panem and started a rumbling speech on something. I didn’t even listen long enough to find out.

I started looking at the crowd, not even bothering to pretend to listen to him. I could see some citizens staring at me, and I waved to them. A girl of about fifteen with bubblegum-pink hair seemed to faint, but her friend, not bothering to catch her, leant as far as she could over the railing and waved ecstatically back. I gave her a thumbs-up and pointed to her hair, which was long, bright blue bobbles. She blushed beetroot red (not a good look with the blue hair), but placed her hands on her heart and mouthed ‘thank you’ back to me. I winked at her and she went, if possible, even redder, and ducked her head. When she looked back up, her eyes were shining and she looked ready to faint as well. Thankfully, right then, President Statia finished and I turned hastily to start clapping. I noticed, though, that Gabriella was staring at me funny and half the crowd was looking at me, opened-mouthed. I shrugged in a ‘what’re-you-gonna-do’ fashion at them, and as we started rolling back, I noticed we were a lot more popular with the mass of citizens. I don’t know why, maybe because I was the first Tribute to give any recognition at all that there was a crowd of millions cheering for them. But we were still insignificant compared to the people cheering for Tributes from Districts One, Two, Four and Ten.

It wasn’t until we arrived on the Seventh floor that Gabriella spoke to me. Well, more liked yelled.

“What the _hell_ was that?” She shrieked to me. I was taken aback for a second, sure that the shock registered on my face, but before I could reply, Rowan stormed over and started yelling at me too.

“Why would you even _dare_ to do that?” He bellowed. He shoved my shoulder just lightly enough that I actually took a step back, my heel hitting the glass full-length window overlooking the city, and I could feel my eyebrows pull up incredulously. “You insulted our President! Do have _any_ idea how serious this is?” Rowan continued. My mouth hardened but I didn’t say anything, just tried to stop it pulling down in the corners. I was so tired.

“We’ll be lucky to get any sponsors now!” Gabriella snarled, and she and Rowan started advancing on me, both screeching at me about how important our first presentation to Panem was. I pressed my hands flat against the glass behind me, and pushed backwards. I felt my shoulder blades squash against the glass wall, and I felt like I was folding myself against it, and if I could fall through I would.

This wasn’t like being yelled at by the Carers or Mrs Ferwere; this was horrible. This wasn’t about doing chores or scaring people; this was about my life. These two people in front of me were telling me I was going to die, and that they would be glad if I did. Most of the time these comments would bounce off me, but not today. Today I’d been introduced to a new place, had people criticise and change my appearance, been told over and over again that I wasn’t good enough and now, apparently, I was disgraced and sure to die. And I was dead tired. Pun not intended.

“Don’t,” I breathed, shutting my eyes and tipping my head back against the glass. They continued to shout at me. “Stop it,” I said louder. They continued, and a sharp whine started forming through my head. I had a headache that was so painful a brought one of my hands up to my temple, but soon flattened it back against the glass, afraid I would fall if I didn’t have both hands supporting me. I couldn’t take much more of this whining. “Stop it, stop it, STOP IT,” I shouted, my eyes snapping open, and before even I knew what I was doing, I had slammed both of my palms into Rowan’s chest and sent him skidding across the polished wooden floor. I backhanded Gabriella across the face and, as she collapsed to the floor, I ran to the room that was mine for now, slamming the door behind me. Knowing I didn’t have much time I slid the bedside cabinet in front of the lockless door and then the chest of drawers. Breathing heavily I sat down on my bed, pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes and said quietly to no one “I’ll move them in the morning.” Since a squad of Peacekeepers didn’t come and barge down my door, I guess somebody heard me and was content to let me have a few hours of solidarity.

I shimmied out of my bark and took a shower and washed off all the paint as the hammering on my door began. I watched the green water stain and swirl down the drain, thinking of how, maybe, I should think more before I act. I didn’t cry or, if I did, it mixed with the water and I pretended not to notice. Finally my hair was back to the black of night and the only thing that remained of my time being a tree was my absurdly green eyes. I didn’t know how to take the contacts out, but, luckily, as soon as I touched one with my forefinger the contact just lifted from my eyeball and I flicked them into the bin. My eyes were back to the brown of dead autumn leaves.

I put on some green slacks and realised the striking on my door had stopped. I tentatively walked up to it and listened. I couldn’t hear anyone, but I wasn’t game enough to open the door in case Rowan or Gabriella was waiting out there to ambush me. I slid the bedside cabinet back beside the huge bed, though, and arranged the chest more neatly in front of the door.

As I lay on top of the blankets on the bed, my hands stretched out, stroking the fluffy comforter, my stomach growled. I realised I hadn’t eaten since lunch today, which seemed so long ago. Back then, I was just another Tribute who, even though the odds were slim, had a chance to win. Now, not only were the other Tributes going to try and kill me, which was preordained anyway, but the Capitol would be after me as well. I was a marked boy. I would not consider myself a man anymore.

My stomach sent angry signals to my brain, and it snarled at me again. I rolled over and crushed it against the duvet. The texture felt strange against my bare chest, and I bit into my pillow, wishing I could open my door without being scared. But no, I wasn’t scared.

_I’m not scared, I’m not scared, I’m not..._ I buried my face into a pillow and when I woke the next morning, I could almost convince myself that it was drool that had kept my pillow wet throughout the night.

 ----

I walked meekly to breakfast the next morning, but realised it must be too early for anyone else to be up except for those creepy servants. I got a bowl and my hunger took over again, so I dolled about half of everything onto my plate. I tried to ignore the pity in the eyes of the servants, but it made me grouchy to see them staring at me out of the corners of my eyes. There was one girl who had her blond hair in a twist, whose creased eyebrows were actually ruining her makeup, so eventually, after my second helping of food, I snapped and sent her away. My yelling seemed to rouse others though, so as soon as I heard footsteps, I started wolfing down my bowl. Lexandra and her assistant emerged from the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and the assistant set Lexandra in the seat opposite me, and went and served himself some food from the buffet table. When he returned, he nodded to me in a casual way, and I thought that maybe not everyone hated me. But then Rowan emerged and walked purposefully towards the table. I swallowed my last bite with some difficulty, downed my juice, wiped my mouth and scooted around the opposite side of the table to him as he sat. I darted back to the bedroom hallways just as Gabriella appeared. I dodged around her, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt at the site of her black eye and bruised cheek.

“You can’t avoid us forever!” She called after me as I ran down the hallway, and I just reached my room when I heard and soft, scared voice call,

“Ike?” I turned to see Cameria looking shyly at me. My hand on the doorknob, I answered.

“Hello,” My voice was low. She seemed to be relieved that I was talking.

“Won’t you come and have breakfast?” She gestured to the opposite end of the hallway, where I had just come from.

“Oh, no, I just ate. But thank you,” I added formally. I realised I really shouldn’t have had orange juice after eating mint porridge as the flavours reappeared in my mouth.

“Alright.” She said stiffly. I tried smiling at her, but as soon as it came to my lips it wobbled and I couldn’t keep it there. “Just be at the elevator in,” She checked an elaborately adorned clock on one of her rings. “An hour.”

“What should I wear?” I asked.

“Surprise me,” She snapped and as she twitched off down the hall, I realised I had just lost my biggest admirer.

 ----

After a shower and a lengthy rummage through the chest of drawers (which was now back against the wall), I emerged from my room with new clothes and a new attitude. I was dressed in brown lace-up boots, soft brown pants, an evergreen long-sleeved shirt and a green knit-cap to sit among my curls. I walked out with a bounce in my step, my eyebrows slightly drawn together, and my mouth in a hard line. I stood firmly by the elevator, shoulders back. I was not going to let anyone bully me. I hated cowering and I hated adults. I would not cower to adults.

Cameria came clip-clopping to the elevator and so did Gabriella, who was smirking and chatting to Rowan, who accompanied her. They both ignored me, which I was fine with, but I casually listened in on their conversation, whilst greeting Cameria. What can I say; I’m a multi-tasker.

Cameria smiled briefly at me with yellow lips then turned towards the elevator. “So just evaluate today,” Rowan said to Gabriella “You have to rest of the week to make allies with the others. I would recommend going for the heavier weapons today and listening well to the instructors. Alright?” My counterpart nodded, and the elevator came. I stepped aside to let Gabriella through, and Rowan, who was _my_ mentor, didn’t even say a word as he spun on his heel and left.

We arrived in the training centre in silence. I noticed Gabriella was dressed all in white: whether it was a tactic by Rowan or she never wore anything so clean before, I don’t know. Her cheek and black eye were artfully covered by makeup. Anyway, when we arrived, I went to stand by the wrestling station while she went to stand by the line of spears. Neither of us said goodbye to Cameria, which seemed to suit her just fine as she trot off. The only other Tributes here were the two from Three, the girl of which was trembling and had puffy eyes, and the two from Six were standing, shoulder-to-shoulder.

For the first time, I got to see the Tributes without makeup. When Gracewyn and Jonathan walked in, Jonathan immediately strolled over to me and clapped me on the shoulder. Gracewyn looked mortified, but trailed in his wake and stood meekly at his shoulder like she was going to have a spear thrown at her by being near me.

Jonathan, on the other hand, flung an arm around my shoulders and kept me in conversation till the instructor came in and told us promptly to shut up. The Twins from Eleven gravitated towards us, too, when they entered, and smiled endearingly at me as they took places on my other side. I introduced them to Jonathan, who grinned lazily at them.

Finally, after we were debriefed, we got to try out the weapons. I noticed Gabriella glowering at me and my new comrades as we all headed for the same station, not talking but obviously comfortable with the other’s company. Except maybe Gracewyn, who was all but clinging to Jonathan’s arm as she tried, and failed, to not look at me, the big Traitor from District Seven.

We tried sword fighting, which was hard but Jonathan seem to have a knack for it, then wrestling, which none of us were any good at. And, truthfully, I didn’t really like getting repeatedly slammed to the grown and getting wrapped in sweaty limbs and smelly clothes. Then we advanced to archery, and Honeysuckle was the only one who left without a stinging forearm. Dagger-throwing was disastrous, and the only person whose spear managed to land point-down was Gracewyn. We didn’t even go near the maces and we were just about to decide on where to go next when the instructor called us to lunch.

Tables of two were scattered about the room, and there was a giant buffet table on one side. I saw the Monster Tributes pull four tables together and all load their plates with protein-filled pieces of meat and veggies. I turned to ask my new ‘friends’ if we should pull some tables together, but they were already headed for the buffet. I ground my teeth and stalked after them.

I dished out a mountain, being very hungry after training all morning. My group were all sitting at tables with their District correspondents, and I saw Gabriella sitting by herself, leering at me to see whether I had the guts to go and sit with her.

I didn’t.

I marched myself over to the boy from District Eight, Marhkuhs with two ‘h’s and a ‘k’, whose District partner was seated somewhere else and sat down in the opposite seat. I nodded to his surprised expression and started tearing into a bread roll that tasted slightly salty, ignoring Gabriella’s sniggers.

We didn’t talk, but sat in a gloomy silence; I think we were both feeling slightly abandoned. But the kid could eat, I can say that. Marhkuhs went back four times, coming back each time with a full plate. I had seconds but that was all. I kept my eyes averted from Gabriella, but whenever I forgot to prevent myself looking I saw her neglecting her knife and fork again, and the person sitting across from her clearly regretting their decision.

“So...” Suddenly Marhkuhs turned to me, setting his cutlery down and blinking, breaking our silence. I saw the kids next to us turn their heads. Nobody else was talking except the Monsters over on their big table, so this was new. I kept my gaze on Marhkuhs, though.

 His eyes were a dark blue, and his hair was a deep auburn. Some freckles dotted his face, and he smiled at me, showing perfect white teeth that were probably imperfect and yellow-ish before he came to the Capitol. With a jolt in my stomach, I realised he may kill me. His smile, the one being flashed at me right at this moment, may be the last thing I ever see as he ends my life.

“What’s Seven like?” He asked me, and I snapped out of my frightening thoughts. I thought back to home, thinking of the tall trees, the smell of pine and the ever-moving people.

“Green.” I decided. “It always smells like pine, and there are always bits of tree bark and wood chips on the roads.” I breathed in a deep breath through my nose then, like I was trying to smell the pine from here. Instead, I got a big whiff of fish. Eurgh.

“I’ve never smelt pine.” Marhkuhs said blatantly, shuffling in his seat eagerly. My eyes widened. Pine was so common it was almost a nuisance in Seven. I can’t imagine never smelling it. “There aren’t many trees in Eight. Lots of smog though, but I doubt that smells as good as pine.” He smiled dryly at me.

“Well, maybe you’ll smell it when we-” I stopped myself before saying it, saying ‘start the Games’. I couldn’t fathom it, and I didn’t want this stranger to feel dread because I reminded him of it. He looked confused for a bit, and then his features softened into a look that was half pity, half fear.

“Why did you stop talking? Everyone knows where we’re going.” He said bitterly. My mouth twisted.

“Because, I suppose, I didn’t want you to think about it.” My heart started beating faster in fear of what was to come and I swallowed. I picked up my empty glass and went to the buffet table to refill it with something fizzy for something to do.

When I returned, he said fiercely “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His eyes were angry, either at me for being pitying or at himself, I couldn’t tell. But I was good at reading expressions: I could always pick up what orphan was lying back home. Marhkuhs was lying, I could see it plainly. Behind those dark blue eyes, I could see my own terror reflected clearly.

“Me neither,” I said indifferently, but he held my gaze and I knew he saw that I was lying, too. The instructor called us back to training and Marhkuhs grinned at me as we left the table, and I couldn’t help but smile instinctually back at him, and for some reason, my tiny act of kindness made a big difference in my attitude that day. It was like a bubble in my chest, a little piece of myself that I liked, something that I hadn’t felt for three months. It was like a little bubble of hope.


	5. I Got Soul but I'm Not a Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly the reality of what we were talking about hit me and I started laughing even more.
> 
> “What?” Marhkuhs said, eyebrows raised, bewildered.
> 
> “We’re talking about girls! We’re about to get ranked and probably get killed and we’re talking about girls!” Jonathan and Marhkuhs exchanged looks and then started laughing too, and we only stopped when a Peacekeeper stalked over and told us to be quiet. That’s when I knew that they were as afraid as I was. And, impossibly, before The End, I had made two friends that were the closest I’d ever had.
> 
> And I may have to see them die.

It was the last day of training before our private sessions, which were tomorrow. My Hope Bubble was still there, right where my heart is, and I think that it’s what has got me through these days of training.

I’ve turned into an optimist. That’s what my Hope has done. Every time Rowan or Gabriella make snide or outright rude comments to me, I just smile at them and thank them, sarcastically, for their opinion and that I’d take it to heart and try to change their view of my chances. But I do, I’ve been telling them the truth.

They tell me I’m weak, so I do the strength course once a day at the training centre. Gabriella grudgingly tells Rowan that I’ve done just that, he makes a face at my smug look and they insult me for something else. Soon I was doing strength course, stamina training and tree/wall climbing training whenever I could. I liked climbing the best: I’m pretty good at trees, having grown up in Seven, but I struggled with walls. And the instructor’s name was Foofoo Schmidt, and he made me laugh, simply by being called Foofoo. But he thought his jokes were funny, so we were all happy.

Rhododendron thought my new regime was cool, so he proceeded to join me the two mornings before lunch, which was when all this would take place. The only morning class he didn’t do with me was climbing; as he demonstrated on the first day of climbing class, he was an amazing climber already.

My three classes usually lasted until lunch, at which I would now sit with Marhkuhs. Soon, because of our boisterous talking and debates, more Tributes would gravitate towards us, and soon Jonathan and Gracewyn had joined their table to ours, as had Rhodo and Honey and the boy from Six and the boy from Five, but I think the boy from Five, who was like Lexandra, had only sat opposite the boy from Six because he was attracted to the loud noises and happy faces we were making.

After lunch, I went back to my group. We tried out the camouflage section (I was adept, but not fantastic- those were the instructors words, not mine. I thought I looked like a perfectly real bright pink, almost-six-foot flower), the edible plants section (Apparently I died three times!), the knot tying and weaving section (which I could do), snares, blowguns (which I was quite the master at, may I say) and, just when I thought I could just go into the arena and attack people with a stick, I discovered my whip. My lovely, lovely whip. It was made of supple brown leather and had a heavy butt that, the instructor told me, could be used to bludgeon someone.

I had never seen a whip used in a Hunger Games before, but after a few tries by all of us and lots of stinging body parts; I managed to get a sharp, satisfactory _crack_ and felt the whip judder under my hand as the air stirred. I grinned at them, and Jonathan gave me a thumbs up, Rhodo and Honeysuckle said “Well done!” in unison and even Gracewyn managed a smile over the slight red welt on her face that was from her misaimed whip. I think she was warming to me.

So now it was the final day of training before the private sessions tomorrow, and, as we agreed beforehand, we split off the practice the things we were good at. As I headed over to the blowgun area first I saw Marhkuhs headed for the wrestling section. By the look of his clothes; a black singlet, three-quarter shorts and running shoes, he was going to be there all day. I didn’t regret telling him to work on what he was best at yesterday. My Hope told me too, and I was kind of addicted to small acts of kindness now.

Rhododendron headed for the baton section, and Honeysuckle was walking in the direction of the bows and arrows. It was the first time they’d split up all week. Gracewyn was already at the spear section of the room and Jonathan was just arriving at the sword fighting arena, where he was looking along the types of swords.

When it was lunch, as I sat down Marhkuhs came over with his usual loaded plate and I beamed at him. It was strange how he was the one I was most kind too, but I think it was because he was the most different, and he had happily, bravely, told me his story. He was like Gabriella: he had lived on the streets all his life, but instead of selling his body, he busked to get food. He would do acrobatics with his strange limbs which wouldn’t get him much but hatred. But what got me to respect him is that every day for a week he put up with the crap I spouted out and just laughed at me: Gabriella was ready to kill me the first time I spoke to her. And he had being going it alone for eighteen years, so I wanted to show him some kindness before one of us died.

Rhododendron and Honeysuckle were a completely different kettle of fish, though. As they told me, their father was Head Peacekeeper in their town, which is why, I presumed, everybody of Eleven voted for them. I decided I was going soft when I felt so sorry for them, and I wished they had a mental-toughening-up course at the Training Centre.

Marhkuhs smiled back at me in a bemused sort of way, and started stuffing food into his mouth. Another thing that differed from him to Gabriella is that he actually attempted to use a knife and fork. Though he used it as a two year old would and shovelled food into his mouth, you could at least watch him eat: with Gabriella, you wanted to vomit when you watched her, knowing she will be doing that very thing that night from the richness and the quantity she had eaten.

I ate only one plate of food today- Marhkuhs and I were cutting down, knowing that we shouldn’t get used to too much food. He only went back for seconds, though. But when they bought the dessert cart out- seeing as it was our last day and they wanted to give us a good send-off- we exchanged a look, and then leapt up and filled our plate with delicacies.

The whip station had an occupant when I got there. Gabriella was attempting, futilely, to crack a beginners whip. The woman running the station was trying to give her tips, but Gabriella wasn’t listening, and just kept throwing the end of the whip onto the floor, and looking at it murderously like she was going to come back and chop it up at midnight if it didn’t work for her right then.

“You’re holding it wrong,” I called to her, just repeating what the instructor had been preaching to her for the last five minutes. I could practically hear the muscles and tendons in her neck cry out in pain as her head turned towards me at lightning speed. Her black eye was finally gone, and it was lucky it had because the stink-eye she was giving me now would have been painful to the bruised muscles.

I’m not sure, but I think she may have growled at me, then. She threw the whip back to the instructor and stalked past me, hitting her shoulder into mine as she did so. I think it hurt her more than it did me, so I just chuckled, which led to her kicking a barrel of maces on her way over to the snare station.

I gave an apologetic look that may have turned to a slight look of disgust at the instructor, and I grabbed a whip and started practicing. I chose a whip that was slightly ornamented: it had three tassels at the end and a criss-crossed grip on the butt for better holding. It was a light, rich brown colour: the colour of the necklace girl’s eyes. I smiled, thinking of home. The whip felt good in my hands, comfortable. Maybe a bit light, but I’d get used to it. My first crack missed and hit my thigh and I jumped around a bit and took in great shuddering gasps like a retard until the pain stopped, and then I tried again. This time the air crackled under the tip, and I got a round of quiet clapping from the instructor, and it just went up from there.

By the end of the day, I was sweating and tired and my arm was sore, as were various parts of my body where I had missed (I’m not perfect) but I was content that I would get above four in the scores tomorrow. I joined Jonathan, Gracewyn and Gabriella in an elevator and pressed the ‘Seven’ button. Jonathan leaned closely around me to press the ‘Twelve’. Gracewyn started glaring at me, and then, as we started to ascend, Jonathan turned to Gabriella.

“So, you’re Gabbie, are you?” Jonathan smirked. I had told them all how annoying Gabriella and Rowan were, and how Rowan was not giving me any advice, so they had taken it upon themselves to relay some of the advice to me they were getting from their mentors. I was very touched. Though they may have been giving me utter crap, I don’t even know but the thought, however malevolent the intention, was nice.

Gabriella turned to me and snarled, “Having you been telling stories about me, _Isaac_?” I cocked an eyebrow and smiled maliciously at her, but didn’t answer.

I was surprised she was desperate enough to try a last-ditch effort to make allies. I wanted to see how far she could get, so I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing as she flipped her long ebony hair back, threw out her chest (like only a prostitute knew how), cocked one knee and smiled (even I admit) a little glamorously at Jonathan. She twirled a piece of hair around her finger, dimpled at him and said, “Oh, but you don’t actually _believe_ what he’s been saying about me, do you?”

I saw Gracewyn transfer her glare from me to Gabriella and intensify it by tenfold, but Jonathan just flicked his raven-coloured hair out of his eyes and looked very amusedly at Gabriella.

“Because...” Gabriella continued, her voice growing huskier as she took the few steps that would take her as close to Jonathan as she could get without actually touching him. “I’d really like for you to get to know the _real_ me.” She breathed, and looked up at him through her lashes.

Jonathan and I burst out laughing at the same time, and as the elevator pinged at floor 7, Cameria found me on my hands and knees, crying with mirth; Gabriella, storming, red-faced out of the elevator and Jonathan, slouched against the wall, one hand on my back the other pounding the glass wall as he laughed silently. Gracewyn was smiling pointedly as she watched Gabriella almost run out of the elevator but turned her frown back on as she glanced over to me and Jonathan shaking with laughter.

Cameria ‘tsked’ and whisked me out of the elevator. I lifted my hand and made a silent signal to Jonathan and Gracewyn as they continued up to the twelfth floor and stumbled drunkenly to the table with my escort and tears streaming down my face.

“What was that?” Cameria asked me, and I looked up hopefully through blurred, teary vision at the sound of the poorly disguised laughter in her voice.

I breathlessly told her the story and by the end she had her butter-yellow lips pressed tightly together and was smiling at me. I beamed back and she started chatting away about her day to me and I couldn’t help the tiny drop of relief that went through me: maybe if I won Cameria back, I could win the whole of Panem back with my Interview. Maybe I could win back my chance.

At dinner I sat between Cameria and Lexandra’s assistant. Whenever I caught Cameria’s eye we’d both glance at Gabriella and smile cheekily, and I even burst out laughing a couple of times, which earned me a sulky glare from Gabriella, an arched eyebrow from Rowan, an amused glance from Lexandra’s Assistant and sometimes Cameria would even join in with me. It was wonderful.

 ----

“It’s a big, big, big day.” I said sleepily to Jonathan as we sat against a wall. Tributes from One and Two had already done their private sessions, but there was still a long way to go. Jonathan was sitting on one side of me, Marhkuhs on the other. A lot of the other Tributes were sitting with their District partners today, but no one told us off for sitting together so we decided we could.

“Wanna hear something funny?” Jonathan said, rolling his head towards me from where it rested on the wall behind him.

“Sure,” I said, meeting his blue-grey eyes with my own. He smiled.

“Last night, Gracie and I went up to the roof, since we have the penthouse, right?” Jonathan started, grinning from trying to retain his laughter. “So, when we were up there, cos we’ve know each other for ages, yeah, like, even before the Reaping, and she started asking me if I thought Gabbie was good looking and my opinion on her and stuff.” I started laughing then, but Jonathan added, “Hey, I’m not at the best part yet!”

I wanted to know what was better than that, so I stopped laughing, and I felt Marhkuhs shift beside me and knew he was listening too. “So I said she really wasn’t my type, right?” Jonathan started again.

“True that,” I nodded. Jonathan made a face.

“And then she was all in my face, like, ‘What is your type?’” Jonathan put on a high pitch voice that I assumed was supposed to represent Gracewyn. “’What is your type, Jon? What is it?’ And I was all like, woah there, step away.” He made pushing motions with his arms, and I assumed again that he was pushing away an invisible Gracewyn from where she had invaded his personal space. “And then, all of a sudden, she said, ‘I’d be really disappointed if you died, Jon,’ and did that thing that Gabriella did and looked at me through her eyelashes!” He was acting astounded now, and I pressed my lips together to stop laughing. Gracewyn’s glaring all made sense now. “And then, she stepped _real_ ,” he drew out the word. “Close to me again and it didn’t click with me what she was going to try to do until then- I know, I’m stupid- and I ran. I _actually_ bolted out of there to my room and locked the door and,” he looked over to where Gracewyn was now, slouched against a wall like we were, but alone, “She hasn’t looked at me since!” I heard Marhkuhs let out a snort beside me and I chuckled too.

“We’re so mean,” I laughed, as Jonathan started giggling too.

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed letting his head roll back on the wall and shutting his eyes, giving me a nice show of the expanse of his neck.

“How do you know her- Gracewyn?” Marhkuhs asked, peering around me to look at Jonathan. “It must be hard to be here with someone you know. Well, I mean. Know well.”

Jonathan kept his head facing the ceiling but smiled in what I could only assume was nostalgia. “She’s the daughter of the Peacekeeper in Twelve that dealt punishments- the Head Peacekeeper, actually. I was caught a lot, from stealing and _stuff_ , and she would either watch me get disciplined or wheedle me out of the punishments. It’s funny now,” He smile dimmed a little and I felt disappointed; “How I didn’t realise she liked me.”

I looked over at Gracewyn, only to see her eyes flicker from us to the ceiling as she was caught staring. “She is very pretty,” I looked back to Jonathan and waggled my eyebrows and laughed.

He shrugged. “Like I said, she’s not my type. And I’m in the Hunger Games, there’s no point doing anything now, even if I did like her. Even if I liked anyone here,”

“I suppose that is the truth. You’re just lucky to have someone to like you,” Marhkuhs said grimly, scuffing his shoe against the carpet.

“I’m sure that, if you win,” Jonathan’s eyebrows rose haughtily, “You’ll have a million girls screaming your name.” His eyes narrowed jokingly. “What about you, Isaac?” Jonathan turned to me. “Got a girl?”

“Nope,” I popped the ‘p’ and remembered, in a different conversation, right after I was Reaped, the girl who gave me her necklace. I wondered where that necklace had gotten to.

 Suddenly the reality of what we were talking about hit me and I started laughing even more.

“What?” Marhkuhs said, eyebrows raised, bewildered.

“We’re talking about girls! We’re about to get ranked and probably get killed and we’re talking about _girls_!” Jonathan and Marhkuhs exchanged looks and then started laughing too, and we only stopped when a Peacekeeper stalked over and told us to be quiet, and we shut up right away. That’s when I knew that they were as afraid as I was. And, impossibly, before The End, I had made two friends that were the closest I’d ever had.

And I may have to see them die.

 ----

“Alldrenn, Isaac.” The Peacekeeper called from the training room. I stood up and waved to the remaining Tributes. Jonathan, Marhkuhs and the Twins from Eleven waved back, Gabriella flipped me off, Gracewyn glared and the rest just ignored me.

I was completely jittery with nerves, adrenaline coursing through my body. I tapped my fingers against my thighs as I walked in, and chewed on the inside of my lip, trying to slow my breathing. _I can do this, I can do this, don’t be scared, I’m not scared, I’m not scared,_ I thought to myself. And, for the moment, I allowed myself to believe it.

I walked in with my head held high. This was one of my two chances to show Panem I wasn’t a complete disrespectful Tribute. That I was worth betting on.

I nodded to the Peacekeeper who had called my name, and then again to the Game Makers who sat around on a balcony-type thing above the Centre where they could see, and they nodded (some waved) back and one I took to be the Head said, “Go ahead.” And then I started.

I bounced for a few seconds on the balls of my feet, and then sprinted off towards the climbing wall, running up about halfway before I had to actually start climbing. I was up and over the third wall before my side started aching. I hadn’t gone this fast or hard before, but I wanted to make a good impression, so I didn’t stop. I was wheezing a little when I flew over the last wall, but I did it.

I took a second to grab my breath, and then headed toward the whip area. I grab the same whip I used the other day and start cracking it around me like the instructor said to do to impress them. The technique was used to scare people.

I then approached the dummies that were set up around the place for Tributes to use and demonstrated my ‘prowess’ on them. I cracked a dummies arm, causing a synthetic light to glow under his ‘skin’ to show the damage level; wrapped my whip around another dummies neck and pretended to choke it, which was awesome until I had to walk over and untangle it; and then, finally, after lots of extravagant arm waving, I flick the nose clean off of one of the dummies and a deep red glow bleed out around the ‘wounded’ area and they told me I could leave.

I waved a little sheepishly at them as I left and held myself up straight until I was out of sight and then gave in to the stitch that was in my side by bending over and wheezing. I stayed cripple in the elevator and practically crawled out when I reached my level, and had to get one of the silent servants to help me to my room so I could take a bath and release my muscles.

After my bath, I dressed in a soft robe and ordered some fried potatoes to my room. They came in a big bowl with some sort of red dipping sauce and a bottle of vinegar. Vinegar was very expensive in Seven, and I remember I chipped a tooth when I got beaten for stealing a bottle of it. I recognised it because of the smell. I wondered what it would have to do with the fried potatoes or sauce.

I munched slowly, pacing my room and trying to stretch out my muscles. They were sore but I knew I had to stretch them to get them back into shape. There was a bookshelf on one side of the room, but I don’t know many words or many books for that matter, so I gave up after looking at a couple of titles. A television was on the other side of the room, so I flicked on the switch and watched a bit of a replay for the 13th Hunger Games. It was the end, and the last Tributes were herded to a huge, dusty valley where they fought brutally but weakly- both were dehydrated. Finally the boy from Three overpowered the other boy from Five and broke his windpipe. I switched the television off, frightened. You could see the boy’s windpipe sticking out of his throat.

I went and vomited my fried potatoes, vinegar and dipping sauce in my fancy bathroom, and then forced a window in my room open and threw the rest of the food and the bowl out, only to see it fly back towards me as it hit some kind of force field. It was kind of lucky they did, because I didn’t want to explain the disappearance of the bowl or the unexpected murder of a civilian walking seven floors down who was hit on the head by falling ceramics. Instead, I brought the chips outside in their bowl after picking them up off the floor (what? It’s not like the floor was dirty in this place), slapped a smile on my face and shared them with Cameria and Lexandra’s assistant while Lexandra beamed at nothing beside us.

 ----

We sat on the couch that night after dinner, anxiously waiting for the scores to be announced. I sat with my knees tucked to my chest with my chin sitting on top, staring blankly while we waited. Gabriella was sitting with her feet in Rowan’s lap, and Lexandra was sitting next to Rowan. I was seated next to Lexandra’s assistant (who I needed to learn the name of) and Cameria was on my other side. We had got here a little early, so, when Cameria had switched the television on, they were replaying another old Games, so Rowan, Gabriella and I were looking anywhere but at the screen. I saw Rowan’s hands twitching and his mouth quirking and my Kindness sort of pushed me to feel sorry for him. But it was hard. I sort of threw him a wobbly eyebrow, but that’s all I could muster to the man who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if I died. But I tried. Maybe.

The Capitol Anthem sounded from the television, then, and I knew the scores were about to come up. I now sat rigidly with both feet on the floor and my hands clenched in my lap. Bunny Crosswire and Emlyn Fuut appeared on the screen, smiling and greeting us. They didn’t waste time but jumped right into the scores, starting, of course, with District One. This time I didn’t flinch or look away when the Monsters’ pictures came onto the screen. Typically, their scores were ranged from eight to eleven, but maybe this year we’d get a twelve. This year _is_ special, after all.

The scores dropped dramatically at District Three. The boy got a five, but the girl only got a two. I don’t even know how she gotten that, I’m pretty sure the only way to get below three was to stand there in the training centre and do nothing. I tried to remember her. I think she was thrown on stage at the Reaping, and has fought her Reaping ever since, throwing tantrums and crying every day.

District Four were monsters again, getting ten and nine. Then there was Five and Six who again bought the average down to around five and then Bunny and Emlyn were presenting District Seven. Emlyn smiled a bit too widely at the camera and hoisted her bare leg into view for about the fifth time in ten minutes, which I’m sure Bunny enjoyed but no one else did. “Isaac Alldrenn,” Emlyn read off a piece of paper.

In a moment of childish desperation I reached out and grasped Cameria’s hand. I knew she stood for everything I hated: adults, the Capitol’s people, someone who enjoyed the Games, but I needed some comfort right now and she was one of the two people in this room that would have given it to me. It was the reaction of someone desperate. The reaction of a child.

“Seven,” Emlyn said glitteringly. I fell back against the couch, smiling, as Cameria squeezed my hand and Lexandra’s Assistant congratulated me. I even got a curt nod from Rowan, and I guessed he saw my pitying look. Well, my pitying eyebrow. Gabriella, on the other hand, didn’t even look at me.

“Gabriella Vulthasson,” Bunny read out, staring creepily at the camera. He had a twitchy eyebrow that annoyed me, and one of his ears was bigger than the other. I made a ‘yuck’ face at the television as he read out Gabriella’s score. “Six,” He said huskily. I was totally creeped out by this guy, but I turned and my Kindness sort of pushed me to murmur “Congrats,” to Gabriella. She looked so shocked I laughed at her, which made her turn a dark shade of red, but in the end she smiled and laughed at her reaction with me. That was new.

“You too,” She said quietly, and I would have got up and left after that, not being able to handle the stares of everyone in that room, but I couldn’t, even though the staring was that bad that even Lexandra had been looking at me, I had to stay and see the scores of Marhkuhs, Honey and Rhodo, Jonathan and Gracewyn. I owed them that much.

Marhkuhs was next, and I saw he had received a six, the same as Gabriella. That was good. Honey and Rhodo received four a piece, which was quite cool, nothing special though. They got everything the same. It was almost creepy. Jonathan received an eight, which nicely surprised me; I’d have to congratulate him. I remembered his powerful arms wielding that sword, and thought he deserved more. I laughed when Emlyn added how handsome he looked in his headshot, and I knew Gracewyn would be spewing right now, and Jonathan himself rolling on the floor laughing. Then Gracewyn’s headshot appeared and she also received an eight, which, by remembering those spears she could throw, was quite adequate. Maybe I’d have to congratulate them both, when I saw them.

I left as soon as Gracewyn’s score was announced. Lexandra had _not_ stopped staring at me since I congratulated Gabriella and Gabriella herself was glancing at me every now and again and it was freaking me out. Pretty soon, the whole world would be watching me. I wanted some quality alone time with all the cameras that watched my every movement before I was being watched by the world.

 ----

At breakfast the next morning, all was back to normal. I made fun of Gabriella, she ignored me. Rowan doted on my rival, Cameria doted on me. All was right with the world, with the exception that it makes children fight to the death for free entertainment. I mean, at least charge them for it!

“Today is the final day,” Rowan said slowly, and, when I looked up, I realised he was talking to Gabriella _and_ to me. “And Cameria and Lexandra and I are going to split up our time to tutor both of you for your final Interviews. You both will be doing posture and etiquette with Cameria and working on the actual Interview with us, meaning Isaac, you’ll be with me and Gabriella, you’re with Lexandra. I hope you have already got ideas on what you want to be your ploy, as we only have three hours each to incorporate lunch, dinner, and your resting time.”

“What about tomorrow?” Gabriella piped up.

“Tomorrow, you will dedicate yourselves to your stylists, and, by the look of your costumes, you are going to need the whole day.” Rowan answered, and I swallowed. I have to spend a whole day with Celestial Shimmer tomorrow? Not to mention Barette, Shinette and Lizette. But I suppose I’d survive. Maybe.

“So, Isaac, you’ll be with me this morning and with Cameria in the afternoon. Alright?” Rowan said, and my fear grew immediately as I looked into his blue eyes. But all I said was, “Okay,”

I pushed my plate away after that and stayed huddled on my chair until everyone else finished, shoulders pushed up to my ears, biting my lip furiously. As I waited I realised I still didn’t know Lexandra’s Assistant’s name. So I asked him, hesitantly, quietly. For some reason, I felt like I was in trouble.

He choked on his coffee, and it wasn’t until he emerged from behind his cup, dripping, that I realise he was laughing. Good-naturedly. Huh. I realised he’d probably have a stupid Capitol name too, like Fuchsia or Houdini or something. I also found myself wanting him to have a sort of normal name.

“It’s Darwin,” He said from behind his napkin as he wiped the coffee off his face. That was a normal name. Maybe. But I liked it. It suited him, with his unchanged blue eyes and the normal pallor of his skin. The only thing unnatural about him was the bright yellow of his hair, the fact that he wore high-heeled shoes and his horrible colour sense. Blue and orange just don’t go together.

“Why were you laughing?” I peered at him from the cover of my shoulders.

“Finished, Ike?” Rowan asked me before Darwin could answer, standing up from his chair. Darwin shrugged apologetically. My mouth went dry but I nodded and he took me to the second sitting area in the seventh floor.

“So,” Rowan said, sitting in a high backed chair and gesturing for me to follow suit. I cautiously perched myself on an equally hard chair while Rowan sat forward and glared at me. My hands shook as I clenched them together and I took a shaky breath in and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Dude,” Rowan said. I opened my eyes to find a completely different picture. Rowan was lounging casually in his chair and grinning teasingly at me. “I can practically smell your fear.” My eyebrows went up in shock.

“What?”  I snapped, pulling at a stray curl on my head.

“I’m not going to eat you, and I’m actually trying to help you. Calm down.” He stated, but I narrowed my eyes, trying to see his angle. We both knew he hated me.

“You hate me,” I said blatantly, voicing my thoughts.

“Do I?” He asked slyly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I spat. He gave a non-committable shrug but other than that ignored my outburst.

“So do you know what you want your angle to be?” Rowan got into business.

“Awesome,” I nodded.

“You need a _real_ angle,”

“ _Awesome_ ,” I drew out the word. “It’s an angle that I can work naturally.”

“Now is not the time for games, Isaac,” Rowan snapped.

“It’s called the Hunger _Games_ for a reason, Rowan.” I answered back, just as brashly.

We looked at each other at the same moment, argument forgotten, and both remembered a moment before I had become a political target; a time where I was just another Tribute, where I had said those same words to a different person.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, looking at my shiny shoes. I scuffed them on the carpet, hoping to smudge the cream fluff, but they didn’t leave a mark.

“Angle,” he prompted me.

“I don’t know. You’re the expert. What was your angle?” I looked up from the carpet in time to see his eyes flash with hurt. I suppose no one asked about his Hunger Games much.

“My angle... was humble. But I don’t think that’s adequate, I didn’t get many sponsors, no one expected me to win.” He told me.

“Who did they expect to win?” I prodded him.

“Definitely not me,” He growled. He stood and started pacing the room.

“What was your arena like? Was there plenty of food? Booby traps? How many weapons were there? How long did it last? Were there-” All the questions I had wanted to ask him tumbled off my lips in a flurried rush.

“ _Isaac!_ ” Rowan bellowed as he turned to me. I saw tears in his eyes. I pressed my lips together and fell silent. Oops.

“It was a jungle, there was plenty of food if you could hunt; only idiots set off booby traps, we made our own weapons, it lasted two and a half weeks and the person they expected to win was the Tribute from Nine.” The words rushed out of his mouth and then he held up his hands. He got points for the candour, though. “Now, I know I should have been teaching you things from the get-go, but you reminded me too much of one of my allies in my Games, so I have been avoiding and neglecting you. But I’m trying to help you now, so that’s enough. Now I’m helping.”

I gaped at him. “You think that’s enough, you helping me now? You’ve hated me because I stirred up some _memories_? I’ve had to get scraps of information from other Tributes, and for all I know, they’re lying to me so I could die easier! This is _not_ enough! You’re a horrible mentor.” I raged, gritting my teeth and hissing the words at him. He thought he could just avoid me because I reminded him of a _dead person_? But then, to my shock, Rowan hung his head.

“I’m trying now,” He said.

“It’s not enough,” I whispered.

We sat in silence for a half hour; me curled up on the chair and Rowan staring out of the window. Then I realised that this may be the only chance I have to actually be mentored. I should probably use it.

“So I was thinking funny should be my angle.” I said, not looking at the green haired man but talking to his empty chair.

“I think you could pull that off,” I heard the smile in his voice. He finally sat in front of me and I tried not to notice the tiny fact that his eyes were not red and puffy before. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

 ----

“Isaac, honey!” I openly cringed at Cameria’s use of the spread in juxtaposition to my name.

“Hey, Cameria,” I answered, giving her a fake smile. She obviously took this as an invitation and hugged me, wrapping me in her neon yellow shawl and practically digging her claw-like golden fingernails into my back. I patted her back awkwardly and tried not to breathe in too much of her smell. It was like sickly sweet fake bananas.

She pulled me back from her so she could look me in the eye. I only realised then, that I was taller than her even with those mammoth heels of her feet. She was tiny. “You ready?” She asked, the curls of her yellow beehive spilling onto her shoulders and curling onto her pink-roughed cheeks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I stated, and Cameria seemed to take this as a joke and laughed uproariously.

“Oh Isaac, you’re just too funny,” She smiled simperingly at me and I gave her a confused half-smile back. I had no idea what I had done.

She gave me some clothes to put on and practically threw me into my room to change. I looked at the outfit and rolled my eyes- it was a lemon-yellow suit, complete with a cream silk shirt, bronze waistcoat and lemon yellow pants with matching overcoat complete with tails. I almost vomited.

I had to get an Avox to tie the yellow bowtie, as I had no idea how to do it, and, admittedly, if you were colour-blind, it was a pretty sweet outfit. Cameria threw in some shoes after me; the same bronze colour as the waistcoat but made of leather and surprisingly supple and comfortable, and I walked out, quite chuffed. I had checked myself out in the mirror for a bit, and, though I was still disturbed about how big my eyes looked without my glasses, I thought I looked pretty good in a suit. Even if the yellow did wash out my pale skin.

“Oh Isaac honey, yellow suits you like a kettle suits the stove!” Cameria gushed as she straightened my collar. I had no idea what a kettle even was, let alone how it suited a stove, but I guessed it was some wacky Capitol saying. I thanked her and then she led me to another spare room where we began.

Cameria fixed my posture, gait, speed, gaze, expression and stance in a few short hours. I told her I wanted my angle to be funny, and so we made me into that person. First she gave me proper posture: Shoulders back, chest out, spine straight. Then we modelled me into a funny-man. She taught me to walk with a slight swagger, my head levelled out, slightly up, chin raised only a little. I walked slower than I usually did, with more purpose. Well, apparently I looked like I had more purpose, I just felt like I was walking with my head higher than usual. When I was still I stood with my legs slightly apart, my posture rigid and my hands by my side, relaxed but ready.

_Ready for what_? I wondered.

For my expression, Cameria told me to harden my gaze and keep it hard. Don’t melt. Don’t melt for her, don’t melt for Gabriella (as if!), don’t melt for anyone. So I tightened my mouth and narrowed my eyes. I felt cruel, not funny though- so I tweaked the corner of my mouth up, just slightly, but that made the difference. Cameria shrieked and squealed her approval.

And then, after three hours hard work, I was fixed. Confident, sassy and ready to face them all. I had a crazy though then, that maybe the Interviews would be harder than the actual Games. I almost softened my gaze and laughed, but Cameria was still watching at me so I didn’t. But I let out a breathy chuckle and went to change out of my ridiculous clothes. I was going to find a waistcoat though. I found I liked them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, the title of this chapter is named after a line in the song All The Things That I've Done by The Killers.  
> Good day.


	6. Rooftop Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sing?” I said, disbelieving.
> 
> “Yeah,” Jonathan mumbled from his hands. “Laugh away,”
> 
> “Sing for me?” I said, half joking, half serious. He looked up from his hands.
> 
> “Okay. But I’ll set the scene first.” Jonathan held out his hands, drawing me up an invisible stage where our Interviews would take place.
> 
> “Imagine, Gracie would have just finished, and the crowd waits expectantly for me, the last Tribute, to go up. Emlyn would now call my name; ‘Jonathan Everdeen!’” he crowed in a poor imitation of Emlyn Fuut’s high-pitched voice. “I walk over, and we banter for a little. And you know that question that she’s forced to ask ever Tribute? The ‘what are your talents?’ one?” It was the one question that appeared in every Interview. “Well, after she asks, I’ll say ‘singing’.” He nodded in finality.
> 
> I stayed in expectant silence, but he didn’t elaborate. “Well?” I prompted. “What song will you sing?”
> 
> “Oh, right,” He laughed in embarrassment “I don’t really know yet. There are a few I could do.”
> 
> “Like?”
> 
> “Well, there’s an old family song... I taught it to my all my brothers.” He began to sing softly, sweetly, but as soon as the first notes left his mouth, the birds fell silent.

Ten minutes after I had finished my session with Cameria, I found myself in the elevator. Not making it move, just sitting in it. I liked the elevator. It was enclosed, so it was private, but it was made of glass so I didn’t feel claustrophobic. I could see out of the clear glass, so it was almost like it wasn’t there. I smiled at tucked my knees under my chin. This was the first time I had felt okay when I was alone since coming to the Capitol. I was alright.

Cameria and I had finished early. Strange really, what felt like hours of work was only over in two and a half out of three long hours. Guess I was lucky, because, as Cameria told me, apparently Gabriella had been horrible and they hadn’t even finished their training when lunch time had come. So now, because I had about half an hour’s free time, I sat in the elevator, not making a sound.

I had donned simple clothes. Since I had been unable to find a waistcoat that was not a horrendous colour, I didn’t have one on. Instead I had a black shirt, green pants and soft-soled shoes. It was nice. My clothes weren’t hurting my eyes with their vibrant colours, but nor were they fashionably uncomfortable. My hair was free to bounce around my ears and wasn’t constrained under a hat. I felt like a sloth in pyjamas.

The lift shuddered to life, jolting me out of my reverie. I saw the number ‘Twelve’ button was flashing. I clamped down on my hopes that it would be Jonathan, knowing it was about 95 per cent more likely to be a Capitol attendant or Avox. I watched the stories of the building next to us flash by as I zoomed up to the penthouse apartment. I hardened my expression, ready to practice it one someone other than the person who had taught me my sass.

When I arrived I was still on the floor. I couldn’t be bothered getting up knowing it wouldn’t be anyone important; I stayed with my buttocks to the floor. I tapped a meaningless rhythm onto my thigh with one hand and pulled at a curl with the other. My hand then rose to push my glasses up my nose, but I realised I didn’t wear them anymore. I didn’t know how to feel about that.

The elevator doors opened and, much to my disbelief, Jonathan _did_ stand there. He looked about as surprised to see me as I did to see him, but as soon as I stumbled to a standing position a plate flew into the elevator and smashed onto the wall to the left of my face. Jonathan’s expression quickly changed from surprised to devilish, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the Twelve apartment.

I was so gobsmacked I just let him pull me through the living room, but thankfully I kept my expression hard. No melting. I was sure a Tribute from a different District had never been inside another Tribute’s apartment before, but when Jonathan yelled “Duck, Isaac!” and I was too surprised to react, the glass hitting my in the shoulder jerked me out of my astonishment.

Jonathan laughed as I squealed “Hey!” and dove around another flying piece of crockery. I then finally looked around for our assailant and saw that it was the male District Twelve mentor. He was swearing at Jonathan, his face red and he was grabbing whatever he could to throw at the other boy. Whatever Jonathan had done, it had made this man _very_ mad.

I ducked to avoid a flying ceramic bowl, and then followed Jonathan as he ran into a corridor. Though this apartment was bigger, the floor plan mirrored mine so I recognised that this was the corridor that led off to the sleeping and spare rooms. What was different was the flight of steps that was where a wall was at the end of my hallway. Jonathan gestured for me to follow him up the stairs, his slight frame racked with laughter, and I did follow, running past the doors. One door cracked open and I heard my name called. I turned in time to see Gracewyn, her long red hair tied up, in a ball gown that trailed on the floor behind her. But I was already halfway up the stairs and a fork flew dangerously close to my fleeing heels to stop, so I just raced on after Jonathan as he went through a door marked **Emergency Exit: Rooftop**.

 ----

As soon as I reached the light of the setting sun, Jonathan slammed the door shut behind me and shunted a broken chair behind the handle, efficiently locking it. We waited a few seconds and then threw ourselves against the chair as the banging started, helping block the door. It went away after about a minute, and was followed by the mentor screaming curses and swears at Jonathan and his ‘puny Tribute friend’, and then the sounds of someone heavy stomping down the narrow stairs. We simultaneously grinned in triumph and both held up our hands for different gestures as we stood off the locking chair. I guess the motions changed due to the variation in Districts as our hands asked for different things, so we both awkwardly put our hands down and pretended it never happened.

“How am I supposed to leave?” I asked, following Jonathan across the rooftop. He was still laughing, but it was more out of content now rather than exhilaration. A bird chirped from the ledge surrounding the building, and its fellows chirped back. The air didn’t smell nearly as fresh as it did back home, but it was better than indoors.

“I don’t know. But I’m guessing that Steve is going to get totally drunk now to get over himself, so you’ll be fine to go down when you do.” Jonathan turned to me and said. His eyes were less blue now they were in the natural light; less coloured at all really- they were practically clear. He grinned at me again and I beamed back, only to remember that I had a persona and expression requirements to fill out, and returned to my sassy gaze. I know, or rather I hoped, I could trust Jonathan, but I didn’t want to melt. Not here, and certainly not with a Tribute.

“Hooray,” I replied, and I took a seat on the asphalt floor beside Jonathan, who had thrown himself down to watch the sunset. The sun setting here wasn’t the same as back in Seven. The sky was less blue, if that was possible, maybe even slightly smoggy. The colours were still glorious though. Orange and pink at one end, royal blue scattered with the beginning of pinpoints of light at the other.

“So,” My eyes slid sideways to meet the awaiting colourless eyes of Jonathan. “What did you do?” My smile grew teasing but my eyes stayed sharp. I could tell he had noticed the difference with me, the stiffness of my shoulders and the set of my mouth, but he didn’t comment. Only stared.

“When?” He asked innocently, smiling serenely and guiltlessly at me. My eyes narrowed and I couldn’t help it: my lips spread over my teeth in a grin that matched his.

“Spill.” I ordered, trying not to laugh. “He was as mad as hell.” And I hadn’t really melted, I was still sharp. All I was doing was smiling.

Jonathan caved as soon as the words escaped from my mouth. “I wouldn’t listen to him,” He gushed, like he was eager to tell someone the story. “He was trying to tell me how to act and how to talk for my Interview, and I kept telling him that I already knew what I was going to do. I told him exactly what I was going to do, and he laughed at me. It made me mad. So I refused to listen to him and called him names. Found out he’s a little sensitive. Can you believe it?” Jonathan’s eyes were shining and he was laughing again. But I felt that the laughter was somewhat forced. Some part of Jonathan’s pride had been shaken when the only previous Victor from District Twelve had utterly rejected his idea.

“What was your idea?” I asked, slightly hesitant. Knowing Jonathan, his idea could have been to fly a chicken down to the stage off one of the banisters. But, much to my surprise, Jonathan went red and kept his mouth shut.

I almost melted then. Almost. But I leant my head to the side and prodded him gently with one of my fingers. “C’mon,” I prompted. He smiled into his hands. I laughed. “Come _on_. Tell me,” I poked him again.

I jabbed him once more and he batted my finger away, but not before he said “Fine.” I sat up expectantly. “I was going to... sing,” The last part came out in a whisper, so I had to strain to hear it. But I did hear it. I gave Jonathan a once-over. He didn’t really look like the singing type.

“Sing?” I said, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” he mumbled from his hands. “Laugh away,”

I wanted to hear him. “Sing for me?” I said, half joking, half serious. He looked up from his hands, shyness forgotten.

“Okay. But I’ll set the scene first.” Jonathan held out his hands, drawing me up an invisible stage where I knew our Interviews would take place.

“Imagine, Gracie would have just finished, and the crowd waits expectantly for me, the last Tribute, to go up. Emlyn would now call my name; ‘Jonathan Everdeen!’” he crowed in a poor imitation of Emlyn Fuut’s high-pitched voice. “I walk over, and we banter for a little. And you know that question that she’s forced to ask ever Tribute? The ‘what are your talents?’ one?” I nodded in response. It was the one question that appeared in every Interview. “Well, after she asks, I’ll say ‘singing’. And then I’ll demonstrate.” He nodded in finality.

I stayed in expectant silence, but he didn’t elaborate. “Well?” I prompted. “What song will you sing?”

“Oh, right,” He laughed in embarrassment “I don’t really know yet. There are a few I could sing.”

“Like?”

“Well, there’s an old family song... I taught it to my all my brothers. Would you like to hear the first stanza?” When he saw my nodded consent he started. Softly, sweetly, but as soon as the first notes left his mouth, the birds fell silent.

 

“ _Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._ ”

 

He took my stunned silence and gaping open mouth as an invitation and, smiling at my surprise that he could have a voice that was so sweet and he continued, even though he said he would only sing the first stanza (whatever a stanza was).

_“Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

_Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

 

I was entranced. It was unreal. His voice, though you could tell it was Jonathan that was singing, it was... unexpected. His voice was lilting, inviting, enthralling. He could get every note and the tune, though simple, entranced, it seemed, even the trees to fall silent.

 

“ _Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me_

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

It took me a second to realise he had finished. I didn’t know what to do, so I clapped and clapped, cheering and whooping. He blushed and I laughed and grinned warmly at him but didn’t stop. That performance deserved a standing ovation.

And then I realised I’d melted. And that, after all of my work, I didn’t care. The hard looks hadn’t lasted long, especially with Jonathan.

“That was...” I couldn’t finish, but he understood. “Any more songs?” I asked, eager for more. So eager, in fact, that I didn’t notice the lamps flickering to life on the roof and the sun finally dipping below the horizon.

But Jonathan noticed. “It’s dark.” He said, pointing to the sky.

“Oh,” I was disappointed. “Well, I guess I should go.” Jonathan had hidden his red face in his arms, but I could tell he was still grinning from my raucous applause. “But you should definitely sing in the Interview. They’ll love it.” He nodded into his arms, and I didn’t know why he wouldn’t look at me. This was Jonathan, the guy I expected to fly a chicken down into the Interviews.

Maybe he was facing the imminent reality of his almost-certain death.

“See you,” I said, standing and walking towards the door to the rooftop. He stood up to see me out and I saw the blush had finally faded from his cheeks. He made to open the door for me, ridiculously impersonating a Capitol doorman, but I put a hand on the frame and held it shut. “How about I scout first and see if there’s anyone down there who’s waiting to kill you?” I offered.

Jonathan scoffed at the idea that I could possibly be subtle enough the be a good lookout, but I just bumped him out of the way and opened the door a crack and peered into the brightly-lit hallway. I then, knowing he was watching me, pressed up against a wall and pretended to be subtle and sly as I tottered down the steps. I then jumped down the last three and landed in a fighting pose, but there was no one in the corridor.

“You’re safe!” I called up the stairs, turning to watch Jonathan’s descent. He just rolled his eyes and walked right past me.

“Are you coming?” he asked as he walked past me, but I saw that his lips were pressed tightly together as he tried not to smile.

“To the tree?” I asked jokingly. But I seemed to have overstepped the line as Jonathan shot me an all-too-real glare over his shoulder. I ducked my head and walked the rest of the way to the elevator in silence.

We walked past a sitting room where there was Jonathan’s mentor- Steve, I think he was called- passed out with empty bottles scattered around him. “How did he drink that much so quickly? We weren’t up there for long!” I asked, feeling a mixture of admiration and disgust. Jonathan also looked at him reverently, as if he had not tried to kill him before.

“Skill,” He nodded. I could only agree. Skill and a strong stomach.

The elevator came as soon as I pushed the button. I smiled at Jonathan as I stepped in. I was worried that my joke had somehow hurt our friendship. But my fears vanished as he threw me a cocky smile and did the gentlemanly thing and pressed the button of my floor for me. I rolled my eyes though I was very glad we were back to normal.

“Why thank you, kind sir,” I joked. But my demeanour dropped and I said “I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.” In a more serious voice. I saw the humour leave Jonathan’s stance too and he bit his lip, worried.  He clapped a hand to my shoulder then trailed it down to where it stopped over my heart. I stood stock-still as I felt my heart beat against his hand. A wave of unimaginable sadness washed over me. We both knew I may have numbered beats left.

“Bye, Isaac,” He murmured and stepped backwards out of the elevator. I let a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding out and one of my hands crept up and pulled on a lock of my hair.

“Bye,” I responded and the elevator doors closed, separating us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~This is the gay chapter.~~  
>  So this is my biggest bullshit chapter, filled with happiness and joyful friendship before shit starts to go down. Have fun with it.


	7. The Negation of Masculinity Points pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tributes!” The Peacekeeper barked, like he didn’t already have our undivided attention. “Your Interviews are about to commence. In regard to the audience out there, there will be rules in place. Any rules broken and you will be... punished.” My mouth went dry. “Firstly, you need to know that this is an audience of all ages. Keep it family friendly. No swearing, or blatant sexual terms, or anything else... unsavoury.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he appraised us. “Secondly, if you try anything, we will know about it. Thirdly,” His shoulders and eyes relaxed. “Go along with Emlyn. She’s your host so be grateful. End speech.” He turned to go, and I ducked my chin into my chest as I turned a snort of laughter into a quiet snuffle at the fact he ended his lecture with 'end speech'. Ah, Capitol People.

The rest of the night passed by uneventfully. Rowan was a little nicer to me, Gabriella flirted unabashedly with _everyone_ and Cameria looked at me with pride every time I sassily glanced around the room. Which wasn’t often as I spent most of the time staring at the black noodles in blue sauce that I was attempting to eat.

I went to sleep lonely and anticipated. Tomorrow was the last day before the Games. I didn’t feel ready, but what else could I do? I couldn’t prepare in any way for this except sleep and eat: get my strength up. So that’s what I did: I slept. Big rah rah.

When I woke up I wasn’t exactly refreshed, but I wasn’t tired so it’s the best I could do. My Prep team were looming over me (minus Celestial Shimmer), squawking worse than an alarm clock. I let them lead me to a prep room and they went to work. I had no idea how this was going to last all day- the Interviews were at least ten hours away- but I just took whatever they threw at me, too downcast to care. I let my sassiness roll off me in cold waves so I was mostly ignored by way of conversation. My Kindness stopped me from yelling at them to shut up every time they reached a new octave, so they should count themselves lucky.

“So I heard a rumour about the Games!” Lizette screeched a few hours in. I had been showered, scrubbed down and waxed in all the appropriate places. I blinked at her, my eyes focussing for the first time in hours.

“Oh!” Shinette warbled. “Spill, _spill!_ ”

Their voices were so high pitched it felt like my skull was going to split open.

“I heard, I heard, I _heard,_ ” Shinette said very fast, “I heard that the arena was going to be basically an island surrounded by the ocean!” I wanted to point out that all islands were surrounded by the ocean before what she said actually hit me.

My heart sank as I digested her words. I’d never been taught to swim. If this rumour was true, I was going to be dead before the first day was out.

How embarrassing.

“ _And,_ ” Shinette crowed, drawing out the ‘a’, “Elmore Pudge said-”

“Elmore Pudge! _That’s_ who you heard this off?” Barette sneered. “You know he’s a flat-rate addict who has no idea what he's saying!”

My heart stuttered in response, and, for the first time in many hours, I raised my head independently. So the rumour may not be true. Maybe I could banish the thoughts of stepping off the plate before the first sixty seconds were up to save myself from showing the world I couldn’t swim.

They bantered for a while longer on the eligibility of Pudge while combing out my hair and rubbing lotion all over my body. My tan they gave me for the Parade had faded, so my skin was a pinkish-white, still darker than it was when I arrived, but it was being fixed as I watched the lotion darken my skin from pasty pale to sun-kissed brown. It made my freckles stand out more and the brown of my eyes look... warmer. Barette happily told me this tan would most likely last the length of the Games. Whoopee.

 They filed my nails and painted them with clear lacquer and repeated with my feet (I think I lost most of my masculinity points as I watched them give me a mani/pedi without complaint). They found a tiny brush and started _combing my leg hair_ , and I kept silent. A thousand phrases and snarks were going through my head but I just couldn’t be bothered saying anything to these people. It would just go through one ear and out the other. There was no point.

They started work on my face next. The put a cream on my lips that they told me would make them fuller and pinker- I think my masculinity points were in the negative by then- and they put a foundation on, powdering across my cheeks, along my forehead, down my nose and chin and continuing down my neck. They outlined my eyes a little with a brown eyeliner and brushed out my eyelashes to make them long enough to cast shadows over my cheeks in the right light.

“Ike. Isaac. Dude,” I heard. My eyes snapped open from where I was lying on the table in a state of meditation my Prep Team called ‘Aw He’s Sleeping, Better Not Disturb Him’ and I called ‘Acting Keeps Them Quiet’.

“Sorry,” I said to Lizette who was commanding my attention. My lips stuck together a little because of the cream on them.

“Can we do your hair?” He asked. I sat up now, facing him, trying to ignore the vulnerability of my nakedness.

“What do you want to do with it?” I inquired softly.

“We were thinking about trimming it- a little,” he added hastily, seeing my evil eye. “And putting some tips through it.”

“Tips?” I asked, my lips smacking slightly due to the cream.

“Like, putting some brown streaks through it.” He elaborated for me. I narrowed my eyes, but ended up shrugging and agreeing due to lethargy. I couldn’t care anymore.

So they washed my hair through for the second time that day and then combed and trimmed it. I felt very pampered as I had three glittering people scamper about me. They gave great head massages, which was apparently to rub through the conditioning agent, but seeing as it was Barette who was giving it, I assumed it was because he liked me. When my glistening curls had dried they evenly placed foils through it and told me to relax for a little while the dye did its work and they proceeded to labour on other parts of my body.

When they finally finished- and by finished I meant _finally_ wiping the accursed cream off my lips and taking the foils out of my hair and stopping with the work on the rest of my body- I was surprised. This made the job they did on me on the Parade night look second-hand.

My hair looked cool, the brown looking even and somewhat natural, not too light but doing me justice more than felony. The foundation hid the bumps and marks on my face, but was light enough so my freckles could be seen through it. My eyes did not make me look less manly but more handsome and the gold flecks I never noticed in my brown iris’ showing through. My lips were a bit too feminine for my taste though, full and plump and dark pink, but my Team just told me it looked like I’d just come from a make-out session. I don’t know whether that was a compliment or not, this close to the Games. My body looked lithe and tan, the little amount of weight I’d been able to put on doing me good and now I wasn’t all angles and bones. I had some substance. The only thing that was wrong that I could pick out was how dull and flat my eyes were: how little my face expressed emotions at all.

I twisted my mouth as an experiment. The movement looked jerky and unnatural, just an empty shell pulling at muscles making the shadow of a sneering expression. I shook my head to clear it, the lethargic empty feeling, but it didn’t work. I needed an energy boost. Some sort of adrenaline rush, but I was just drained and... pathetic. I wasn’t even fighting any more.

Eh.

I waited in a fluffy robe until Celestial Shimmer strode in, a suit bag draped over one arm and a chummy smile on her face. I rolled my eyes and swung my legs from where I was seated on the makeover table, and felt a tiny speck of feeling in my tummy. I sighed in relief and it grew. Not much, but it grew. I could still feel. Bonus.

Celestial whipped out a suit that wasn’t completely horrendous. Actually, if I saw it at a shop in Seven (as if any shop in Seven would have something that fancy in it), I would think twice before setting it on fire. It came with black dress shoes, thin socks and a tie that evolved from the green base to the auburn part that knotted at my throat.

Celestial Shimmer gave me undergarments and the thin black dress socks to put on myself and that was the only and last manual work I did for myself that whole day, I think. She wiggled me into the pants, then, (because apparently I was incapable of putting on pants, however fancy, by myself) and whipped a belt through the loops, working quickly with the clasp. The pants were nothing special, just black with no fitting, ending just as they touched the tops of my feet. Celestial then proceeded to pull a black button-down silken shirt on my thin shoulders and rapidly putting the buttons through their comparative holes, though she did not button the highest one on my collar, letting me breathe a little. She tucked the shirt in then, making me feel very uncomfortable with the feel of her hands delving down my pants, but it was over soon enough. The shirt itself was snug and fitted well, the cuffs of the long sleeves ending exactly where my hands ended and the wrists began.

I smiled happily, joy surging softly though me, and made grabby hands when Celestial brought out a waistcoat. She tugged it on and murmured her first words to me since she arrived. “Cameria told me you liked them,” She said, and I chuckled. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad. I had a waistcoat, after all. And I could _feel_ again.

My stylist then proceeded the knot the tie around my neck, but she didn’t tie it to precise perfection. She let the knot be twisted a little, not as tight as regulation formal ties, and loose enough you could still see the undone button on my collar and the look was overall... casual. For a formal suit. And she left the end untucked where it would usually be slipped into the waistcoat. I liked that.

Celestial shucked on my blazer next, tugging the collar hard around my neck and straightening the lapels. She smoothed the shoulders and arms, tugging the sleeves of my shirt down where they had ridden up. She jerked the bottom of the suit jacket down, and I swore if she yanked one more time on _anything_ I was going to pull on her hair and see how she liked it. I felt like I was being hauled in every direction. She finished by fastening up the blazers two buttons and smoothing her hands down my chest, pulling lightly (not hard enough for me to follow up on my threat) on the hem, for once smiling at her accomplishment.

And I had to admit, it was, indeed, an accomplishment. This look was so far off from being dressed as a tree it was like that had never happened. My suit fitted perfectly- I had to wonder if they’d gotten my measurements while I was sleeping because I don’t remember giving them out- and it was... gorgeous.

And there go the last of my masculinity points.

The base colour was charcoal black. The only things that weren’t black were the tie and an embroided stem of leaves from each sleeve up to the hem line on my shoulder. The embroidery was beautiful- the colours were the same of that of my tie, the green on the leaves and the auburn being the thin line representing a branch that connected the leaves. It was intricate but not unrealistic. It was subtle enough to not make the suit look ridiculously spiffed but enough to avoid the dreary look of a plain suit.

I lifted my hands to straighten my tie but Celestial Shimmer seized my wrists in a vice-like grip. “Nuh-Uh,” She chided. “Rowan told me you were going for ‘humorous’ and this look is _fabulous_.” Her voice was too pitchy and I winced. I suppose I should have thanked her, but her fingers were digging into my wrists under my shirt cuffs and her fingernails left little crescent-shaped marks when she finally let go. I coughed and squirmed instead.

Cameria was waiting for me in the hall. When I saw her I spread my arms and tweaked my mouth a little. “How do I look?” I smirked. Hell, I knew I looked _awesome_. Maybe that _should_ have been my angle.

Cameria squealed and reminded me of my bobble-headed Capitol Fangirl from Parade Night. She pounced on me, being careful not to mess any pieces of clothing up but eyeing me hungrily. I swallowed nervously and shifted away from her. We started walking towards the sitting room closest to the elevator, and I was starting to _feel_ again.

“Oh, Ike, you look absolutely _scrumptious_!” Cameria eyed me off again, her eyes darting from the tips of my shoes back to my eyes. I avoided an awkward conversation about how edible I appeared when Gabriella joined us in the sitting room, stomping in gracelessly with heeled shoes but looking proud of herself and her outfit.

Gabriella and I matched, like on Parade Night, but obviously she wasn’t in a damn sexy suit. We were... compatible. She was wearing an appealing dress that was the same colour as my tie. It was strapless and fell to mid-thigh and had a black ribbon tied tightly below her bust so it bowed the dress in and showed her lack of fat. It was also ridged with pleats giving it a pleasant effect, though it wasn’t overwhelming as they didn’t take the main focus of the dress. She wore some high-heeled ankle boots on her feet and her fingernails were painted with the same fading colours, green to auburn, and I had no idea how they painted them like that. Her skin wasn’t as tanned as mine, though it looked a little browner than before. Her eyes were lined thickly and her eyelashes were clumped what I supposed was stylishly with makeup (which I didn’t think was a good look). Her hair was out and straightened, but the front was braided off her face.

I frowned a little when I realised my lips were pinker and fuller than hers.

I nodded hello to her, and I felt the blush rise in my cheeks as I saw her eyes appraising me from my shoes to my hair like Cameria had done. I tried to take it in my stride, but as her eyes found mine I realised that if Gabriella was doing this then what hope was there for those shameless Capitol women who you saw on the television every year saying disgusting things about the Tributes’ bodies. I shuddered, then appreciated the thought that at least it would raise my sponsors and, for once, I looked good, knew it, and other people thought so too.

So I took a breath in and straightened my shoulders, returning to my funny, cocky self.

“Like what you see?” I rumbled to Gabriella. For once she didn’t duck and blush at my comment.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You just look less ugly than normal,” She answered, huffing out a breath and flipping her long hair back. I knew that I must look smoking if she had complimented me like that. I grinned widely at her and, though she looked taken-aback, she must had realised she complimented me because the blush finally surfaced on her face. I smirked and walked the rest of the way to the elevator.

I saw a majority of the other Tributes were already in the Training Centre when I arrived. I looked around for someone I liked and spotted the Twins from Eleven. I started to wander towards them when Cameria stopped me and told me to stay with the Seven crew as we moved to the wall nearest to the elevator. I grumbled and took to waving at Rhododendron and Honeysuckle over the heads of other Tributes. They saw me and gave simultaneous waves back in my direction, looking eerily alike in all but costume.

I must have been depriving my Kindness lately as it seemed to want to take desperate measures. It nudged me to sidle up to Gabriella and when I was by her elbow I decided this may be the last full conversation I have with her. That perked me up.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked her as sombrely as I could with a straight face. She jerked around and looked at me through narrowed eyes, appraising me as if I had an alternate angle. I couldn’t help myself and I felt the corner of my mouth pull up in a smile, even though she had me with my back against the wall.

“Fine,” Gabriella tossed her head and growled at me. I kept smiling at her.

“Okay,” I answered, realising that she didn’t want this conversation to go anywhere. I was cool with that.

“Is this some strategy, Isaac?” She snapped at me, getting in my face all of a sudden. “Being all nice to me, hoping to find out my tactics, hoping that, if we’re friends now, it’ll stop me from breaking your stupid neck tomorrow?” She was positively snarling at me towards the end. I whistled. Colour me pink with embarrassment. Here I was, thinking she’d changed.

“Just making conversation, princess. Don’t ruffle your skirts.” I rolled my eyes. She didn’t seem to have evolved any social etiquette during her stay here as she was still uncomfortably in my space and I had to lean backwards to keep her body off mine. I shifted on my feet, awkward, but was saved, thankfully, by Gracewyn and Jonathan popping out of the elevator.

“Hi,” Jonathan chirped, eyeing the distance, or lack of, between me and Gabriella.

“Howdy,” I reciprocated, observing his fully black suit. It even had a breast pocket with a pitch dark handkerchief in it with a corner folded politely over the top. “Attending a funeral?” I quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Jonathan was about to answer with what promised to be a sneaky comment by the look on his face before Gabriella cut in front of him and said, “Yours, hopefully,”

I rolled my eyes again. “That’s illogical, Gab,” I retorted. She thankfully moved away from my then so I didn’t have to lean away from her to avoid some awkward face-smushing, but she still stood so close that I had to angle my body so we didn’t touch. Damn the wall and my inability to step away. I turned my eyes to Gracewyn.

“Wow,” I whistled. She glared at me, and I just grinned back, keeping up the cocky front. But I could tell she saw through it so, for once, she laughed and smiled at me without, you know, looking like she wanted to kill me.

She was in a simple black slip of a dress with strappy shoulders. It was tight enough to draw attention to her curves but loose enough to leave some of it up to the people’s imaginations.  It also had ribbons of different shades of grey threaded around it, drawing the bodice in and lining where it ended around mid-thigh. It was very pretty and quite flattering. On her feet were strappy heels that weren’t too high but accentuated the delicate arches of her feet. Her nails (on hands and feet) were painted the same colour as her hair, which was pulled in a ponytail that was waved and curled.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” She smiled at me. This made me so happy, because, for once, Gracewyn was talking, smiling and laughing with no effort to glare or snarl at anyone who was even looking at Jonathan. Must be a big effort on her part, maybe she was finally letting him go.

And then Jonathan looped his arm around my shoulders and lent on the wall with me and I saw Gracewyn’s face fall and close off. I stared pitying at her but made no move to remove Jonathan’s arm. He didn’t seem to notice though, and just waved at Marhkuhs (with two h’s and a k) across the room. I smiled at gestured too, seeing his lanky figure over the top of the other Tributes, keeping my focus off Gracewyn.

It was selfish, I know. I wanted all the friends I could gather because I was desperate and craving warmth before the end. I wanted these things even at the expanse of Gracewyn losing what I gained. And yes, it hurt me that it was wounding her, but my selfishness was holding me back from giving her friendship too. So I moved away from her, Jonathan trailing me because of the arm around me, and we squeezed past Gabriella and, against Cameria’s indignant cries, met up with Jonathan and the Twins around the middle of the floor.

We chatted idly for a little while until, I presumed, all the Tributes were assembled and we were ordered around into single file with the female from District One at the stage entrance. We were in ascending Districts with the boys in line after the girls. We were all shifting awkwardly and for once I didn’t feel the need to talk, feeling my nerves peak because I couldn’t hide from them anymore.

A brawny Peacekeeper walked to the head of the procession and cleared his throat. He was decked out in full uniform except for his helmet, so they must finally trust us enough to believe we wouldn’t brain him with the closest inanimate object. What noise there was died as we all turned attention to the thickset man at the head of the line. He thrust out his chest and put his hands behind his back, standing as erect as possible. Someone had the nerve to giggle as he rocked back on his heels in a scarce moment of imbalance. Idiot. I hoped it wasn’t one of my idiots.

“Tributes!” The Peacekeeper barked, like he didn’t already have our undivided attention. “Your Interviews are about to commence. In regard to the audience out there, there will be rules in place. Any rules broken and you will be... punished.” My mouth went dry. “Firstly, you need to know that this is an audience of all ages. Keep it family friendly. No swearing, or blatant sexual terms, or anything else... unsavoury.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he appraised us. “Secondly, if you try _anything_ ,” I could see his eyes because he was without his visor and they were widened to their full potential. Gold star, Mr. Muscle. “We will know about it. Thirdly,” His shoulders and eyes relaxed. “Go along with Emlyn. She’s your host so be grateful. End speech.” He turned to go, and I ducked my chin into my chest as I turned a snort of laughter into a quiet snuffle at the fact he ended his lecture with _end speech_. Ah, Capitol People.

He turned back to us Tributes sharply and I raised my head back in a nanosecond, hurting my neck in doing so. He had his hand pressed to his ear and I saw a little earpiece. He must be receiving a message. “One more thing,” Not a message, it seemed, but a reminder. “Have fun, kiddos.” He rolled his eyes but someone must have ordered him to say that because Big n’ Beefy there didn’t seem to give out encouragements all that often. Only the fact that I was fighting for my life stopped me from beaming back at him and chirping a gleeful ‘ _Aye, aye, Captain!’_ As it was, I gave him a faint smile which was not returned in the slightest. Maybe he missed it.

And then, before I knew it, we were being ushered onto the stage. I blinked in the sudden light and tried not to trip over my feet as I walked the last few legs to my chair. I did my best, though. Every step I walked how Cameria taught me. My head was up, tilted ever-so-slightly to the side, a smirk dancing on my lips. When I reached the miniature throne that I was the claim for the night, I lowered myself slowly and sat with my legs slightly apart but back straight and eyes attentive. I had to be arrogant but dutiful. This was the fight for my survival, after all.


	8. The Negation of Masculinity Points pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy from District Four rubbed his right fist vigorously into his left hand and said quite cheerfully, “And then I’ll bash their heads in and squish all their brains out so it fertilises the earth and makes plants grow from their brain juices-” Eugh, this guy was insane. I winced and turned my attention back to the crowd, doing my best to keep my hands from circling my ear and mouthing the word crazy at the cameras. I tried to block out the Interview but phrases like “I’ll bathe in their blood,”, “I’ve been dreaming about dismembering them since I arrived at the Capitol,” and “Well, my cat back home’s name is Tiddles,” kept floating through my ears and into my brain. These Interviews were going so great. Not.

The applause was tremendous. Even after we had been seated, the crowd roared and waved and screamed our names. There were at least a three TV screens on every surface, some permanently dedicated to one Tribute, other showing live feeds, some just trained on the audience. My mouth was dry and I was struggling to swallow as I saw a lot of the citizens- particularly young adults- were directing their attention at me, hoping for the same response as the blue bobble-headed girl had gotten on Parade Night. I glanced sideways quickly to see my fellow competitors smiling and waving back, so I followed suit. I raised a hand and twirled it casually, brining to my lips my most brazen, mocking smile that I knew (because I could see it on one of the fifty-bazillion screens placed around the place) made me look as drawling and humorous as Rowan, Cameria and I had planned. My groupies screamed in assent to my attention, but I didn’t focus my awareness on any particular individual this time. I associated with them as a group and I all but cried in relief when Emlyn made her dramatic entrance onto the stage and sat at her artificially enlarged behind in the ornate Interviewer’s chair.

Emlyn’s way-too-blond hair was entwined with strands of red precious gems and was streaked with alternating thin strands of pastel-pink and black. Her fingernails and toenails were also painted in the two alternating colours and her fingernails were almost-claws at the length they were. Her bare legs were in impossibly high heeled, open toed shoes that I could not see how she could walk in. She was wearing a plain black leotard that hugged her skin way too tightly and was much too low cut. It didn’t cover her legs at all and the visible skin on her body was a deep, fake tan that was so red it made her skin look russet-coloured and unnatural. Her face was caked with makeup and she had too much blush on her cheeks and her lips were the same pink colour but had the same red gemstones embedded into them as she had in her hair and the colours didn’t match and I felt my masculinity points (which I still had not regained) fall further away from me as I made this observation. Her black eye shadow expanded past the curve of her brow and just looked plain messy, like her stylist’s hand had slipped and they hadn’t bothered to fix it. Her rabbit ears were white and fluffy and poked erect out of the confines of her hair, with her rabbits tail somehow outside her leotard and quivering slightly. Overall, Emlyn Fuut looked old and outdated, like a sad old lady trying to gain back her glory days and trying way too hard to please everyone.

Emlyn greeted the crowd and got the ball rolling almost immediately. She brought up the brute of a girl from One and started the Interviews. I half lidded my eyes and slouched ever-so-slightly in my seat. I tried to pay attention, I did, but I was too nervous and jumpy. The only reason I caught the first part of the Interview was because of District One girl’s ridiculous name. I mean, there have been stupid names before, but this one takes, devours and destroys the cake.

“Give a huge hand for Katti Meow-Meow of District One, everybody!” Emlyn called to the crowd, cupping her hand around her mouth like the crowd couldn’t hear her through the hidden microphone. The crowd, oblivious to the outlandishness of the name, screamed and went wild. I choked a little when I heard her name and glanced left and met Marhkuhs’s gleeful eyes as he held back his own laughter. I grinned and he beamed back and we both stifled our amusement, the District Eight girl between us looking startled by my maniacal expression as I looked her way.

“So, Katti, are you enjoying the Capital so far?” Emlyn’s smile was scarily broad, stretching across her wide face, her teeth abnormally large and white and clashing horribly with her so-bronze-its-almost-red skin.

“Well,” The girl, Katti Meow-Meow or whatever, set her wide shoulders back and almost glared at Emlyn. It was sort of amusing as it gave her the look of being about to sneeze. “It is the greatest place in the world, so yes, I am,” She grunted as she ruffled her skirts. I rolled my eyes. _Sap,_ I thought.

I zoned out after that until Patti You-Who or Kitty Litter-Tray or whatever-her-name-was’s Interview was over. I started paying attention again as she ambled back to her chair and apparently “Mocha Smarzokova” was on his way up. _District One,_ I huffed.

The Interviews seems to crawl by. I had to physically restrain myself from tapping a rhythm onto my knee by clasping my hands behind my back. I was running thousands of different phrases and ways my Interview could go and everything I could say. I was considering all the possibilities. What would happen if I stayed silent through the whole thing. What would happen if I turned everything into a sexual innuendo. What would happen if I tried to punch Emlyn Fuut. If I tried to play with her ears. If I was entirely charismatic and delivered an awesome performance. If I redeemed myself to the President and Rowan and Gabriella and the Gamemakers. If I didn’t and I was condemned to die as soon as I stepped foot in that arena tomorrow.

I never knew three minutes were this long. Thank god I wasn’t Jonathan. If I was going to go last, I would have torn out my hair in anticipation. I counted the seconds down in my head. One-hundred and eighty seconds was a long, _long_ time. I whispered the numbers under my breath, thinking I was lucky to know how to count up to two-hundred. I knew some of the kids in the Care Home who couldn’t even count their fingers. Well, they could now. I had taught them.

The boy from Four made a reference to the rest of us Tributes back here, gesturing and throwing a dazzling grin to the line of sullen competitors seated behind him. Most of us glared back, and I concentrated on the conversation, wishing as soon as I did that I hadn’t.

District Four boy rubbed his right fist vigorously into his left hand and said quite cheerfully, “And then I’ll bash their heads in and squish all their brains out so it fertilises the earth and makes plants grow from their _brain juices_ -” Eugh, this guy was insane. I winced and turned my attention back to the crowd, doing my best to keep my hands from circling my ear and mouthing the word _crazy_ at the cameras. I tried to block out the Interview but phrases like “I’ll bathe in their blood,”, “I’ve been dreaming about dismembering them since I arrived at the Capitol,” and “Well, my cat back home’s name is Tiddles,” kept floating through my ears and into my brain. I schooled my features back to coldly indifferent and went to staring at District Four guy as he chatted with Emlyn in case he turned back to us. When the buzzer went he hadn’t looked back and he made his way to his seat so I turned my head to keep staring unblinkingly at him. I don’t know why.

He saw me looking and made a line-movement across his throat with the pointer finger of one hand, and I presumed he was threatening me. I blinked, thus breaking the staring, grinned and mouthed ‘ _bring it_ ’ back at him. It’s not like he could get me right here and now. He seemed shocked that I had the nerve to fight back so he twisted his features into a snarl at me as he sat in his throne. I was tempted to continue to torment him but I remembered that cameras were probably trained on us so I winked at him and turned back to pretend to listen to the Interview now going ahead.

I noticed the subtle thumbs-up that Jonathan flashed me and grinned on the inside.

Time crawled by until finally Gabriella was being called up. She stood and glanced around wildly as Emlyn called her name. When her eyes landed on me I saw the raw fear coiling in them. I noticed her trembling body and if she didn’t stop now she was going to fall flat on her face. I made _go_ motions with my hands, jerking my head to Emlyn, but Gabriella just trembled harder and she was shaking like a leaf, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I saw her chest rise and fall rapidly as she huffed her breath in and out unnaturally fast and I realised that she wasn’t going to move unless someone made her. So my kindness sort of shoved me and I stood up and walked smoothly to Gabriella. I heard District Eight girl’s sharp intake of air, but I just tried to act like I knew what was going on. I approached her left side and slickly offered Gabriella my left arm and leant in to whisper in her hear.

“Hurry up, Gab, or you’re gonna miss your Interview.” I growled and subtly jerked my right elbow into her ribs to shock her out of her immobilising fear. She clutched my offered arm frantically and I circled my other (with the attacking elbow) around her waist as I walked us both over to where Emlyn was waiting, looking gleefully surprised.

Gabriella started slowing down. “I can’t Isaac, oh my god, I don’t think-” She was whispering to me. She almost was pushing me away but I was awesome enough to keep us looking like a gentleman escorting a lady to her nice chit-chat with a rabbit woman.

“Listen, _dumbass_ ,” I snarled into her ear. This wasn’t my responsibility, and I was only doing this so some _prostitute_ could maybe do okay in an Interview which would mean increasing her chances of staying alive. Not to mention that she has been threatening to kill me since the day we met. “Sit down in the nice chair and talk to the old lady about how happy you are to be here.” I shoved the small of her back and guided her by the shoulder so I could squash her as gracefully as I could into the chair. I grinned charmingly at Emlyn then and hurried back to my seat, subtly wiping my sweating hands on my dress pants and hoping everyone thought that was planned. I glanced to my left to see Gracewyn with her hands cupped over her mouth to restrain her laughter, Jonathan with his cheeks puffed out and looking into his lap and the Twins looking endearingly at me and I knew that maybe I hadn’t convinced everyone.

“So, Gabriella,” Emlyn Fuut starts, her smile almost a leer as she leans in uncomfortably close to Gabriella. “That was quite an entrance.” Even I was creeped out, so Gabriella must have been dying right about now.

“Oh, well,” Gabriella flushed bright red and ducked her head. “That was just Ike- Isaac, I mean.” She blurted out, garbled and fast, and I wanted to smack my hand into my face. As it was, it took all of me not to roll my eyes skyward.

“Ike?” Emlyn picked up on the nickname, her rabbit ears literally pricking up. I didn’t like where this was going. “You have a nickname for him? Oh that’s precious, sugar.” Her voice came out pitying and sickly sweet, intent dripping over her tones.

What _was_ it with these people and referring to others by the names of condiments?

“I- what?” Gabriella looked confused.

“Well, nicknames are a sign of affection, honey-bun,” Emlyn sounded like she was telling a toddler that the sky’s colour was blue. She licked her gem-studded, pastel pink lips “And, well, participants in the Hunger Games have been known to be _overly-affectionate_ with other competitors if they’re old enough-”

And then it hit me what she had said, well, what she meant by what she said, and I went bright red and wanted to vomit all over my shiny black shoes. Ew, ew, ew ew ew ew ew. I locked my vision on Gabriella to see her reaction. I was expecting her to rise up and smite the she-devil-rabbit for even implying that our relationship was overly-friendly when it was barely over hostile. I was glad to say I didn’t go unsatisfied.

“Hold up,” Gabriella literally rose a hand and placed it with her palm facing Emlyn, stopping the Interviewer from saying anything else. Gabriella couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. She was grimacing with her head held down, like she couldn’t quite comprehend that Emlyn had the _nerve_ to say what she had. I saw Rowan in the crowd, his head thrown back and laughing hard, and my own mouth twisted as I noted the ridiculousness of the intention.

“You think,” I turned my attention back to Gabriella to hear her voice trembling with rage. “You think that I would _fool around,_ ” She made air quotations around the words _fool around-_ Way to keep it PG Gab- “with some _vermin_ like Isaac Alldrenn?” She was finally looking at Emlyn, who had a stunned look on her face. At the same time both women in the middle of the Interview turned to me, Emlyn checking to see my reaction to being called _vermin_ \- I have to say, not very creative, Gabbie, you could’ve done better- and Gabriella to just simply glare at me. Her gaze did seem to soften a bit when it fell on me, though. Maybe she was just amping up the hate for the Interviews. I flashed them both a grin and a thumbs-up to show how unoffended I was and that they should continue and they both turned back to face the front. I sighed in relief and sunk a few inches down my chair as the attention of the Interview turned away from me and onto District Seven as a whole.

“I hate them,” Gabriella stated in deadpan when Emlyn asked how she felt about the District. I saw Emlyn’s heavily-pencilled eyebrows shoot up. “They didn’t understand me and they hated me too.”

“But, sweetheart, they brought you _here_!” She swept her arms out in a gesture meant to represent the Capitol. “Shouldn’t you be _grateful_?” She peered at Gabriella.

Gabriella’s face turned sour. I knew nothing good would come out of it. I saw, out of the corner of my eye from one of the screens that was permanently fixed on my face, my eyes crinkle into the smallest wince in history. My nose had wrinkled a tiny bit as well as my eyes and it was all in preparation for her answer. If she declared her detestation of District Seven on screen now I had walked her to her seat for nothing. I had stopped hating her for nothing. I saw Rowan in the crowd, all signs of his laughter from before wiped off his face, looking deadly serious.

It was like someone flicked a switch next. One moment Gabriella’s face was bitter and dark and the next there was a warm smile in place, her eyes sparkled (with malevolence or warmth, I couldn’t tell) and she looked genuinely... gleeful.

“Aha!” Gabriella crowed, but playfully, her tone light and bubbly. I barely kept the shock off my face. A happy Gabriella- let alone a _bubbly_ Gabriella – was one I’d never met. “I tricked you!” She continued in a high, tinny voice, filled with laughter and warmth. I found myself sharing a wide-eyed look with Rowan. So this must have been unscripted.

“I was just kidding,” Gabriella leant towards a flustered Emlyn, smiling earnestly with her not-as-full-as-mine lips and chuckling. “I love District Seven! Who wouldn’t?” She then directed her question to the crowd, who roared back in agreement.

This was all too much. I blanked out for a minute. I know I should have been paying attention, but seeing Gabriella just change, as fast as a whip crack, and her being all... all... _nice_ and stuff, it just blended my brain like nothing else had. So I zoned out of the program for a minute- only a minute, I swear- and when I came back down they were now talking about the Games, which I really didn’t want to listen to so I didn’t concentrate on the conversation.

I figured I had about thirty seconds to get myself ready and pumped. I ran a hand quickly down my body, readying my clothes, while simultaneously reaching up to adjust my glasses. Which, of course, I didn’t wear any more. So my hand kept rising to pull on a curl of night-coloured hair and then returned to the arm of the throne. I controlled my breathing and tried not to bite at my beautiful lips- who am I kidding, they gave me a woman’s lips, they’re freaking gorgeous-  and ran phrases and best-case/worst-case scenarios through my head.

And then the buzzer went. Aw, crap. Time to shine, buttercup.


	9. The Negation of Masculinity Points pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Emlyn settled back in her chair now, and I wondered how long three minutes could be. They didn’t seem this long when I was waiting. “What were you looking at that was so important on Parade Night?” I froze in my seat. This was it. This was the moment of truth. I took a deep breath in.
> 
> “Well,” I didn’t know how to answer that with humour without seeming impolite or too cocky for my own good. I was stuck. Why hadn’t I prepared for this? Why? I had been so focused on the questions she had been asking other Tributes I hadn’t realised that, of course, she was going to ask me this. Why the hell hadn’t I prepared? Idiot!
> 
> And then a thought struck me. Maybe, since I seemed to have two personas this Interview, since I struggled to find the answer through humour, maybe, just maybe, I could find it through... cuteness.
> 
> Ah, hell, I was never getting my masculinity points back anyway.

I rose fluidly, keeping as calm as I could and grinning nonchalantly at the crowd as they grew excited at the prospect of fresh meat. Gabriella and I met half way and she stopped the same moment I did. Emlyn made an annoyed clicking sound with her tongue and gestured for me to keep moving, but I ducked my head quickly as Gabriella leant up to whisper in my ear.

“Nailed it,” She whispered. I rolled my eyes. _Only because of me,_ I thought.

“You’re welcome,” I hissed back. She gripped my arm for a second and then was moving again, as was I. I moved with pretended purpose, fighting the urge to pull at my hair and when Emlyn rose up to meet me and enveloped me in a hug (she only hugged the boys, never the girls) I wished she hadn’t. She squeezed against me and as I patted her back as friendly as I could, her hands going too low for my liking and it seemed that this was all the action she could get as she squished her chest against me and I escaped as gentlemanly as I could from her wandering hands.

“Isaac!” Emlyn leant away from me, keeping a firm grip around my biceps, and her smile went wide, scarily stretching her face. I smiled somewhat meekly in return.

“Hi there,” my smile widened when I realised it sort of had to for me to be humorous. She squealed randomly then and shook her head from side to side in an apparent star-struck wave of emotion. A gem-studded strip of hair smacked me across the nose and I scrunched up my face in defence seeing as my arms were still clamped to my sides and I couldn’t bring them up to guard my face.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart!” Emlyn cackled, obviously feeling the impact. And then she noticed my creased face and she let out what could only be a shriek. “Oh my golly goodness, Isaac, honey, you’re simply _adorable_!”

A chorus of screams went up from the crowd in agreement, and I had no idea what they were talking about. I un-crumpled my face and looked at her blankly, trying to decide the right answer. “Thank you?” I lifted my shoulders a little and ducked my head, awash with a foreign shyness, overwhelmed by everything and acting instinctually. I never planned for this to happen in my interview, and I didn’t know how to react. All of a sudden she grabbed my chin and planted the most uncomfortable kiss ever into my cheek.

“Oh _honey_ ,” She looked into my eyes that were widened in shock and fear when she had finally leant back from where her lips had been glued to my cheek, “You’re just _precious_!” She sat me down next and I was too dumbfounded to think of doing anything but going where her arms guided me.

“So,” Emlyn’s ears twitched as she crossed her glossy legs and planted an elbow on her knee with her hand cupping her chin. “Darling, how are you enjoying the Capitol?” She turned a head a twitch to the left then, and looked over my shoulder. She must have been looking directly into the camera that was behind me there. “I know I simply adore Carla Redfeathers’ Fantastique Arm Chairs. All Tributes have one, so there simply necessary for _everybody_!” I was gobsmacked. _Um, what?_ I thought, but decided not to comment.

“Everything here is simply so awesome,” I tilted my chin up, closing my eyes slightly and smiling. I decided to lead on from armchairs. “I don’t really have much time for sitting though. I'm kind of mostly training for this little thing that’s on tomorrow, you might know it? It’s called the Hunger Games, it’ll be on TV. You should check it out,” My grinned stretched wider lazily. “I’ve heard it’s pretty popular,”

The crowd laughed. They _actually_ laughed with me. I chuckled as well and hope swelled in my chest, like a bubble that wouldn’t be popped. I winked at the audience and got a few cheers in return.

“I’ll make sure to check it out,” Emlyn responded, her voice dry all of a sudden.

“It goes on for a couple of days, so you might be able to catch a few minutes.” I continued, and I even huffed a laugh myself. The crowd gave a collective chuckle, but Emlyn shifted in her seat, hitching her leg higher.

“Speaking of, sweetie,” Emlyn said, “Have you got any talents that will be able to help you out in these Games?” The crowd fell silent, eager. I grinned widely back at them.

“Oh yeah, Emlyn,” I closed my eyes for a second, as if trying to remember all the talents I had. I came up with zilch. “I have _loads_ , I don’t even know which ones to tell you about.” I smirked, wetting my dry lips with my tongue. Emlyn herself squirmed.

“Care to tell us about one? Any one at all,” She prodded my broad answer’s unstable walls, making them shake down to the foundations.

“Well, I can... climb.” I gathered. “And most of those yahoos,” I gestured behind me at the twenty-three other Tributes, “Are too heavy for a lot of branches to hold them, so if they can’t catch me, I can’t die.” I didn’t need to turn to see all the glares I was getting; I could see it all on about ten different screens. I even saw the girl from Four lean over to her District partner and I distinctly read her lips saying ‘ _is he calling me_ fat _?_ ’.

“What if there are no trees, babydoll?” It was Emlyn’s turn to smirk, but I just scoffed.

“There are always trees,” I smiled, full to the brim with confidence. “And I can climb walls too, also poles, ropes, really steep steps, anything perceived as difficult.” I beamed at the crowd. The hooted again, seeming to find my comments about the steps amusing. And I could see why; some of these people were pooling over the edge of their seats. My guess would be that they’d never had to climb steps in their lives. My nose wrinkled again, and I squinted my eyes slightly. On the screen it looked like I was about to sneeze, my features mirroring District One girl’s a little.

“Ah!” Emlyn cried suddenly, pointing to my face, claw-like nail almost catching my nose. “You’re doing it again!” I immediately went cross-eyed trying to look at my nose.

“What?” I asked, incredulous. “What am I doing?” My tongue darted out and licked my lips another time. They were going to chafe.

“Being adorable!” She cried, and I was enveloped in an unexpected hug, and it was my greatest effort not to gag on her perfume. “You’re like a little rabbit! Wabbity-wabbity!” She leant back only a little this time, repeatedly saying ‘wabbity’ to me (what the hell does that even _mean_?) and kept her arms looped around my shoulders. She poked my nose with her finger. “You’re as cute as a button, Ikey!”

I could see no appeal of cuteness in a button at all, but I suppose it was a compliment. So apparently I pulled cute faces when thinking in disgust of the Capitol people. Who knew? And she didn’t compliment Katti Meow-Meow from District One when _she_ looked like she was about to sneeze. I felt my shoulders rise again and I instinctually reached up and pulled on one of my curls. “Thanks,” I grinned, this time from where I had ducked my head. May as well milk this for all its worth. I was rewarded with her leaning back but also another screech of delight. The crowd screamed, too, and I spared them a glance to see all my groupies at the front almost falling over each other in delight, their eyes shut tight as they would go and mouths open in squeals lost to the tumultuous noise.

“So,” Emlyn settled again, “We know Gabriella’s side of the story,” Gabriella’s face flashed onto about fifteen screens. “We know you two are just _friends,_ ” She air-quoted with her fingers and I got the feeling she didn’t believe it. “But what about _you_ , Isaac, you don’t have, uh, _unrequited_ feelings, do you, hun?” I laughed good-naturedly.

“No, no, we’re just... buds,” I forced the word out. Like hell we were.

“Buds?” Her rabbit-ears perked. “She called you vermin!”

“Oh, that, yeah, we have a couple of nicknames for each other. Vermin and Ike are some of the ones she has for me.” I hastily covered. I didn’t know why I hadn’t just made this easier and said I hated her.

“What do you have for her?” Emlyn prodded. I held back a sigh.

“Well,” _think, think, think,_ I chanted, “Gab, Gabbie, cavewoman, bitch-” to word just fell out of my mouth without me thinking about it. _Crap,_ I thought, _family-friendly_. “-erson.” I squinted my eyes, not being subtle at all about my cover up. “Bitcherson.” I coughed. I heard a sharp bark of laughter from behind me and I twisted in my seat to see Jonathan with his hand clamped tightly around his mouth, body shaking and face turning slowly red as he held in his laughter and tried not to let any more of it escape. Gracewyn was biting her lip so hard it was pale and her eyes were shining, ears turning red at the tips. Marhkuhs’s hands were fists on the arms of his throne and he had a totally blank poker-face on, while even the Twins were pressing their lips together. I gave them a quick grin and turned back to Emlyn.

“Bitcherson?” She asked, but I could tell I had fooled her. She thought it was a legitimate nickname. Score one for Curly-Head.

“One of my friends back in Seven, well, his last name was Bitcherson,” I quickly made up a faceless boy in my head. “She looks a little like him- Gab being more feminine, of course- and I just call her that sometimes.” I garbled out quick, and I felt sweat run down my neck. _Down boy, calm down_ , I thought, _you’re fine. You’ll be fine. I’m not scared,_ I took a deep breath in. She seemed to buy it, as did the audience.

“So,” Emlyn settled back in her chair now, and I wondered how long three minutes could be. They didn’t seem this long when I was waiting. “What were you looking at that was so important on Parade Night?” I froze in my seat. This was it. This was the moment of truth. I took a deep breath in.

“Well,” I didn’t know how to answer that with humour without seeming impolite or too cocky for my own good. I was stuck. _Crap, crap, crap_. Why hadn’t I prepared for this? Why? I had been so focused on the questions she had been asking other Tributes I hadn’t realised that, _of_ course, she was going to ask me this. Why the hell hadn’t I prepared? _Idiot!_

And then a thought struck me. Maybe, since I seemed to have two personas this Interview, since I struggled to find the answer through humour, maybe, just maybe, I could find it through... cuteness.

Ah, hell, I was never getting my masculinity points back anyway.

“Well,” I said again, lowering my head and looking at her from under my lashes. I saw her breath catch in her throat. Man I was good. “I was just- I was so in _awe_ of the Capitol,” I sighed theatrically, “I just couldn’t stop admiring it! And of course I’m so _sorry,_ but it was just so... magical!” And, if I could cause that kind of effect on them with an impromptu cute face, a planned one hit them like a nuclear bomb. I scrunched my nose, still looking at her through my lashes with wide eyes, the tiniest smile playing around my mouth. I bit my lip a little, and even creased my eyebrows. I don’t even think a puppy could beat that, to be honest.

Emlyn actually rocked back in her seat, hand clutching her chest, as if the look I was giving her has hit her like a corporeal thing. And then she stuck her bottom lip out and whimpered at me. “You’re going to _murder me_ , Ikey!” I will if you keep calling me that. “You’re just...” She seemed lost for words and I couldn’t resist.

“Precious,” I tipped my head up and grinned again, full of sass for what I prayed was the last time this Interview. “I know,”

The buzzer went, finally, but before I could leave she lunged across and hugged me _for the third time_. I almost sighed at the repetitiveness of this, but I patted her on the back as quickly as I could and released myself from her clutches. I scooted back to my seat and winked at the District Eight girl as we passed on the way up. When I got to my throne I collapsed and just breathed deeply while pretending to be courteous and listening to the District Eight girl’s Interview. I felt sort of sorry for her. My Interview would be hard to follow. I smiled vainly to myself, allowing one moment of selfish triumph. I’m shallow, I know.

District Eight girl’s Interview was over before I knew it. I swear mine had been ten times longer. I scowled at her as she scuttled back to her seat, and then grinned as the thought crossed my mind that perhaps they cut her short because mine was so awesome and the audience were getting bored at this follow-up. Of course it wasn’t true, but I was indulging myself tonight. I felt I deserved it.

I cheered with the rest of the crowd when Marhkuhs stood. My whoop quickly turned to a gasp of surprise as he twisted around and did this, like, _reverse-walking_ thing with his long, oddly-jointed legs to the Interview seat. The crowd was in awe as he raised his arms once he’d arrived and I realised it must be some sort of dance move. I grinned contentedly again. Of _course_ Marhkuhs would _dance_ to his seat. I let out a belated ‘Yeah!’ before I realised everyone was mostly quiet, and when the audience, the cameras, Emlyn and Marhkuhs stared at me, I just shrugged and quipped “It was funky,” to cover up my mistake. _Still,_ I thought, _idiot!_

I heard a groan and a smacking sound from my right which I interpreted to Gabriella slapping a hand to her face in embarrassment, but Marhkuhs’s genuine smile and very audible word of thanks that even the crowd could hear was worth it.

His Interview was great, I guessed. Well, it would have been, if Emlyn hadn’t put in freaking _adverts_ at every possible interval. I hadn’t realised she was doing it until now, but as I was currently tuned into her mannerisms since she pulled one in my chat with her, I realised what she was doing. And it was ruining his Interview.

“Who’s your best friend, honey?” Emlyn asked at one stage, leering at Marhkuhs. “The diamonds from Hal’s Jewellers are my best friends,” She gave the camera a glittering, saucy wink. Marhkuhs cleared his throat and shifted a little.

“I don’t really have any friends,” He rumbled, holding his hands in his lap.

“C’mon, baby, who’s the person you like most in the world right now? Anyone at all.” Emlyn prodded and I wanted to growl at her. He grew up on the street; he wasn’t going to have any friends. She should leave him alone.

Marhkuhs squirmed under her watchful eye. “I'm... acquainted with a couple of the Tributes,” He said eventually. _No!_ I mentally screamed at him. _No, no, no!_ Sadly I don’t think he heard me.

“Is that true?” Emlyn’s eyebrows rose, lining her face even further. He just shrugged in answer. This Interview was going south very quickly. “Well?” She snapped in response to his silence. “Who are they?” Marhkuhs just lifted his eyebrows haughtily, using his imposing size to appear too menacing to answer. I almost sighed in relief. You don’t say you were friends with Tributes when you had to start killing them tomorrow.

The Interview ended almost mercifully, with Marhkuhs gliding as animatedly back to his seat as he had on the way up, passing District Nine girl with no notice. I applauded politely but it was nowhere near as good an Interview as I would have hoped for him. I hid my pout though, and avoided his dejected gaze as I tried to listen to Nine.

Honeysuckle’s Interview was better. She appealed to the crowd by being her sweet self and melting them into a narcissistic puddle. She was dressed in a red pinafore-like dress that ballooned out at her waist and had her hair stylishly messed up with the front twined back. She wore white frilled socks and shiny red shoes, and with her wide, earnest, tawny-coloured eyes she looked overall at age five, not fifteen. She played her part well I think, but I don’t think she’d get many sponsors because it seemed like she appealed to the crowd with no material value; almost like she wanted them to know the injustice of the Games but she didn’t want to win. Honeysuckle wanted them to know that if she could do anything right now, anything at all, it would to get her brother away from this danger and put him somewhere where he’d always be safe. She was like one of those show-dogs that you saw and cooed over before the main event but once it had left the limelight you didn’t care if you even saw it again.

Rhododendron was much of the same. He was wearing a beige two-piece suit with a same coloured tie on a dark brown shirt, but it all looked about a size too big (their stylist must suck) so it gave him the look of a kid trying on his parents’ clothes. His hair was carefully arranged to look carelessly flopped around his head like a mop and I'm pretty sure the stylist had even given him unnatural cowlicks. He again appealed with intense eyes, saying how though he was thankful he was here (like hell he was) but he’d rather his sister be somewhere else- anywhere else- because he loved her more than the world itself.

And then each of their three minutes were up, and the Twins from Eleven were finished for the night, and I was worried that they were finished for good.

Gracewyn was elegant and refined, using poise she had apparently pulled out of thin air to flatter the crowd and be self-deprecating at the same time. She used a lot of hand-gestures and flitted about nervously but when the pressing questions came you couldn’t underestimate her. When she shifted position and crossed her legs, you could see the muscles in her thighs and calves rippling, or when she flexed involuntarily while laughing or reacting in shocked admiration to something Emlyn had said you could see the taut tendons and coiling power in her neck and arms. She was a real opponent in this competition.

“So, Gracewyn,” Emlyn looked slightly snooty as she hitched her leg into view of every camera once again. She seemed to find Gracewyn’s long legs and attractive features threatening. “What are some of your hobbies back in District Twelve?”

“Oh,” Gracewyn sat her hands in her lap and looked like the poster girl for etiquette. “Well since my father is a Peacekeeper, he has to keep up a strict fitness resume,” She started, smiling slightly.

“Yes, dearie,” Emlyn interrupted with an upturned nose, brushing her hair off her shoulders to give the cameras a better view of her bare chest. “But we didn’t ask about your _father_ , we asked-” Gracewyn’s mouth snapped shut, and I think Emlyn was about to revel in her seeming victory at one-upping the striking victim she was interviewing. Gracewyn wasn’t going to like this.

“Right,” Gracewyn snapped, cutting off Emlyn. “Well, if you’d have let me _finish_ ,” She almost hissed and I remembered the Gracewyn who had tried to murder me with a glare alone when I had first met her. I directed calming thoughts at her because if she was too rude to Emlyn then this whole thing could go up in smoke. Because my thoughts were going to help her so much when it came to the decision of whether or not to try and make Emlyn combust with her eyes for interrupting her answer. “I would have told you that my father’s fitness resume ran from seven to nine every morning, which included the _elite exercises_ that Peacekeepers do,” It was Gracewyn’s turn to look down on Emlyn as she totally trumped her. “And I join him every morning before school. That’s a hobby of mine.”

The crowd ‘oohed’ at her revelation of strict exercise, which would equal to saying she skydived every day; it was something foreign and different to a majority of Capitol people. Gracewyn batted her smoky eyes at them and the rest of her interview was a competition between her and Emlyn to see who could win the crowd’s favour more.

Jonathan was rather subdued on his walk up. It was strange. And I couldn’t help a slightly puzzled frown make its way onto my face. From the start of his interview he was polite and charming, and my gut clenched whenever he lent in too close to Emlyn (brave soldier) or tipped his head back and laughed. I didn’t realise how nervous I was for him. Then, of course, the point his interview had been racing towards jumped on him.

“So, Jon,” Emlyn liked him. She was leaning far too close to Jonathan and occasionally brushing her hand along his leg or arm whenever she thought no one else would notice. “What are your... talents?” She looked at him in a way I presumed was supposed to get a sexual message across. I shuddered slightly at thoughts of what must be going through Emlyn’s head, and nothing was pleasant. I thought we were supposed to keep it PG, madam.

“Well,” I saw Jonathan turn his head slightly in my direction, almost like he wanted to look at me. But then again that may be my adrenaline-fuelled brain over thinking the situation. Maybe he was just stretching his neck. “I can sing.” He breathed out, eager. Emlyn looked rather taken aback, and wasn’t reacting, and Jonathan didn’t have that much time left in his interview, so if he was going to get this ball rolling he better do it soon. “Would you like to hear?” He blurted out, and I could tell he was worried she was going to say no. But Emlyn just settled further back in her chair.

“Sure, baby,” She leered.

“Okay,” He straightened up, taken a deep breath and smiling his most winning smile at the crowd. “This is an old song- and I mean _old_. The guy who sang it was pretty famous, I assume, but my family sing it a lot now. I think it’s mostly a family song. Okay,” He glanced at his shoes for a moment, a blush seeping into his cheeks, and then he looked up again, opened his mouth and started to sing.

 

_“Wise men say only fools rush in_  
But I can't help falling in love with you  
Shall I stay  
Would it be a sin  
If I can't help falling in love with you”

 

                Jonathan crooned, his voice deep and soft, but singing to a tempo slightly faster than what suited the song, probably because he was worried about the time limit. But what did I know, really. His eyes were a light blue now, looking straight into the camera and filled with a sort of warmth that made my toes tingle.

 

_“Like a river flows surely to the sea_  
Darling so it goes  
Some things are meant to be  
Take my hand, take my whole life too  
For I can't help falling in love with you”

 

I felt something unexpected then. Something swooped in my stomach and my throat kind of closed. I choked a breath and swallowed noisily, my nose twitching. A fear of what was coming hit me roughly next and suddenly I flinched in my seat, Jonathan’s voice washing over me, in complete juxtaposition with the terror uncoiling and bearing its terrible head in my belly.

 

_“Like a river flows surely to the sea_  
Darling so it goes  
Some things are meant to be  
Take my hand, take my whole life too  
For I can't help falling in love with you  
For I can't help falling in love with you”

 

There was silence. You could hear a pin drop, it was that quiet. I wanted someone to do something, say something, do _anything_. I would have started it but I was trying to cope with the unexpected nerves having a rave party in my belly. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, and the silence stretched. Jonathan paled considerably, and looked like a deer caught in headlights. His hands moved nervously to pull on his jacket and he glanced around and caught my eye. He kept staring at me, and I didn’t know what to do. But he looked so... in _need_ , so I let a small but warm smile grace my features, and let out a long breath through my nose. He collapsed slightly into his seat, and gave me a tiny quirk of lips in return. Then his gaze shifted, and then, after a year-long twenty seconds of silence, the crowd finally made noise.

“ _Marry me!_ ” A girl screamed, literally hollered, from the front row, and then the crowd exploded. I had to clap my hands around my ears to protect myself from the assault of noise that was bursting my ear drums. This was louder than anything yet. Jonathan leapt back in his chair and tried to sink right through the back of it, pushing his shoulders into the hard support. The buzzer must have gone off during the noise because Emlyn ushered him away with a slight push and a groping, lingering hug. He looked slightly queasy as he sat back down and the crowd (who had _just_ started to calm down) erupted all over again. A Peacekeeper off the stage gestured for us to rise after about a minute of being all but assaulted by the din, and ushered us off. I waved again, milking it for all it was worth, but as soon as I got out of sight of the audience I let out a huge breath of air and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. _Finally_ that was over.

I walked over to Jonathan, and hustled him jokingly into an elevator. We were joined by one of the Tributes from Two and both from Six. Jonathan and I stood quietly as the elevator emptied, and on the short journey from floor six to floor seven I began a conversation.

“We know who the fan favourite is,” I grinned mischievously at him, and he flipped me off, mirroring Gracewyn on the first night I met her.

“Shut up,” He blushed all over again. The elevator binged at my floor by I didn’t get off yet. I held the doors open, leaning against one casually so it didn’t slide back into place and take me again to floor twelve.

I didn’t feel any resentment or jealousy towards Jonathan. It’s not like he stole the show from under my feet or anything. In fact, it was kind of brilliant that he got such a good receiving. I was basically happy for him.

“Isn’t that the reaction you wanted?” I prodded quietly, curiously. I wanted to know. I mean, if I had the nerve, or a good singing voice, I’m pretty sure that was the reaction I would have wanted. But Jonathan just shrugged uncomfortably.

“I suppose,” He sighed. “It went a lot differently in my head,” He ducked his head and blushed harder at this, and I didn’t know how to approach this new, shy Jonathan. It was kind of endearing; cute, in the way he brought his shoulders up to his ears and scuffed a shoe against the clear glass floor of the elevator. But different to the brash, teasing, flirtatious being I had come to appreciate over the last week. So I gave him a wan, tired smile and exited into the seventh floor, but turning back and giving a salute as he ascended. He grinned impishly back, but was only a shadow of what he was yesterday, and gave me a rude hand gesture in response. I rolled my eyes and, chuckling to myself, walked into the living room. I tried not to think too hard that that was the last time I would see him before we were trying to kill each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay, I know, before everyone starts yelling at me for using Can't Help Falling In Love because it's too cliche, lemme tell you this;  
> I **_know_** it's cliche. Heck, even I think it's too cliche for friggen fanfictions! It's everywhere! EVERYWHERE I TELL YOU.  
>  BUT  
> But. I had a long chat with my sister over whether to use it or not and we decided that an Elvis song, especially one as popular as Can't Help Falling In Love, would _survive_ into post-apocalyptic America _and_ it's sort of a song an Everdeen would sing.  
>  Plus, I like it. So suck it up.


	10. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose it was typical that I couldn't sleep. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow per se, but I'm pretty sure my subconscious was very aware of the impending threat that I may not be alive tomorrow night that it coerced the rest of my body to be prepared for fight or flight by pumping adrenaline around. The excessive energy, coupled with my belly complaining that I had overeaten and wasn't thankful for that, kept me very much awake. After about an hour of lying curled in bed I decided to tough it out and watch some television, maybe get some tips.

"You were  _magnificent_ ," Cameria breathed, up in my face when I entered the living room where she, Rowan, and our stylists were waiting. Cameria leaned heavily into me, and only now I noticed how low-cut her top was, showing off her tattoo and plenty of cleavage blandly, but my high had worn off and the thought that Cameria, a mid-twenties- to-early-thirties-aged woman was obviously attracted to me, didn't flatter me at all. It made me uncomfortable, but to pull away now would be... impolite. So I pulled away, murmuring nonsense and making excuses to flee her fumbling hands. Screw manners at a time like this.

Cameria looked slightly put out, but she was lucky I saved the disgusted expression from appearing on my face till after I turned away from her. Rowan saw it though, and he made an aborted motion with his hand, like he was reaching out to cuff me around the head but realised there would be no point. He scowled fiercely at me, but I was saved from a telling-off when the elevator announced its arrival on our floor again and Gabriella swayed in, looking about as energised as I was. Cameria congratulated her too, but not as enthusiastically as she had done me, and Gabriella soon moved off to flop on one end of the squishy, long, curved couch in front of the massive television.

"The re-caps will be on in a little while," Rowan said. I nodded and went quickly to the dining area to get a drink. An attendant gave me something made of a cordial, crushed ice and some sort of drizzle through it when I asked for 'something interesting'. It was a pale yellow colour but the drizzle was a dark brown and sticky, and had a mini neon orange paper umbrella sticking out of the top next to the think black straw. I looked at it warily and decided to get a large glass of water as well. Then I remembered that I may not find water for a while and made the order two glasses of water.

I marched back into the living room with a tray laden with three full cups and plonked the tray on the coffee table, sitting on the other end of the couch to Gabriella and bringing my feet up to join the drinks. I grabbed one of the glasses of water and stared determinedly at the blank television, trying to ignore those watching me.

Those still standing chose a seat after that. My Prep Team sat themselves together on a loveseat that was to the left of our sofa, the side closest to me; squeezing onto the two-seater in an effort to stay near to each other. Rowan placed himself near to Gabriella on the cream couch and Cameria sat herself and her yellow ruffles as near to me as could that seemed natural. Gabriella's Stylist and Celestial Shimmer sat on our couch, sitting comfortably in the space between Rowan and Cameria while Gabriella's Prep Team sat on the arrangement of little pastel-coloured pouffe things on the floor to the right of the couch. They sort of grumbled and I saw my Team shooting them smug looks from their place of squashed pride on the loveseat.

"Pass the remote, will you, Gabriella?" Rowan sighed contentedly from his slow decent into the cushions. Gabriella looked at him then, her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit.

"Of course," she said, blinking her still made-up face. And then I saw her puzzled gaze as it passed over me to scan the room and objects closer to her and realised she had no idea what a remote was. I guess one wouldn't if you'd lived on the streets for most of your life. The part of me closest to my sternum where she had jabbed her finger when she had accused me of ruining their chances wanted to watch her flail. That part of me egged me on and reminded me of the rankness of her breath from never touching a toothbrush in her life before the start of this week, or the painful words she jibed and threw at me without shame.

But then my Kindness Bubble, awaking from being almost dormant lately, quashed the spiteful part of me and gave me new memories to think of. Standing in a white night frock in a rattling train with her arms tucked behind her back; doleful brown eyes softening as they turn to look at mine in a time where they were supposed to be hard; the flash of a gleeful grin, plump lips whispering  _nailed it_  into my ear and a hand squeezing the crook of my elbow after an interview; a whisper of congratulations after the Training scores. It also reminded me of the guilt I felt in a lot of interactions with Gabriella; the feel of her cheekbone beneath the back of my hand, the spiteful feeling of joy at her humiliation in the elevator, the malice in my voice at calling her a dumbass in a time of crisis and the spike of fury that coursed through me when I threw a ceramic mug, still with the dregs of hot chocolate swilling around the bottom, at her shadowy figure when she came to reconcile with me in my room that night on the train. Because, of course, it was her.

I snapped up off the couch then, crawling over to where the remote was resting on the end of the coffee table closest to Gabriella and farthest away from me, not meeting her suspicious gaze. I snatched up the slim silver thing, thin as paper and lighter than air, which was the remote, and brought it back with me to my place on the couch. It was strange, that we were from the same District but the only reason I knew what a remote control was is because I was lucky enough to be in the Community Home. That was a strange thought; I was lucky to be in the Community Home. Where children were slapped and lived in conjoined dormitories and ate slop. But only now I realised in depth of how it was better than living on the streets, no matter how badly we were treated. I nestled closer to Cameria than usual and grinned cheekily at the shocked looks I was getting from most of the people in the room.

"I wanted it," I smiled, and poked it enough for the television to switch on. I didn't look at Gabriella as she sat back on the couch, only shifted to get more comfortable against Cameria's side as she slid her arm round the back of my neck and started stroking, unconsciously, it seemed, my bicep. I restrained myself from tearing away from her in a sprint and focussed on the rumbling in my stomach which had started, but I'd sadly have to wait till the end of the recapping of the interviews to eat.

Much to my chagrin, I had to give up the remote to Cameria after two minutes because I got us stuck on some music channel. The girl on stage had very boring clothes on; black corset, red plumed skirt and kicker, high heeled shoes. He arms were both inked with roses and angels and lines of words probably meant to be inspirational and her legs were covered by stockings that didn't cover much. She had lank, ebony hair and tonnes of make up on which made her look dopey and heavy-eyed. She was rumbling along stoically, rocking back and forth on her feet, into a microphone, singing a song about how He and cheated on She and now She was gonna get a "bro so much hotter than that hoe". Rowan was laughing at the incredulously disgusted look that was dancing across my face, and Cameria plucked the remote from my stilled hands, changing the channel to the right one. One of Gabriella's stylists gave a shriek of outrage, claiming that it was her favourite song because  _the lyrics were so deep and meaningful and it was about how love prevails._

I coughed slightly to hide my disbelief. Then, just because I'm a smartass and can't keep my opinions to myself, I said "I liked Jonathan's song better," to the awaiting ears of everyone in the room. I then busied myself in ignoring the snide looks I got and stared deeply at the television which was playing the opening theme (which consisted of lots of blaring and beats) of the Interviews.

The Interviews were much brighter and cheerful looking on the television. Sure, some of the more unsubtle Tributes were easily seen twitching and being nervous, but when the camera scoped over to me during District Three boy's interview, I was looking largely unruffled. Gabriella, too, seemed very poised, hands clasped in her lap for most of the waiting period. Unlike me, her eyes were trained on the pair talking, while I was, though paying attention 95% of the time, moving my eyes restlessly and making faces of indecipherable emotions every now and again. Damn nerves.

Gabriella's interview was worse than I remember it. The close ups of both our faces were creepily dramatic and drastically overused (I think the cameraman needed to be banned from the zoom button) and her false cheeriness was alarming. But, I can say truthfully, she was at least a little bit better than some of the other contestants.

Unfortunately I felt the same way about my interview. Oh, goodness, it was horrible to watch. The shyness, the cockiness, and the switching between the two, was painful to view. I was assured (like was had assured Gabriella before me) that my interview was wonderful but I still felt unsure. The hunger I had felt before abandoned me and I curled up onto the couch and, even if I don't want to admit, a little closer to Cameria's warm body. I wanted comfort, so sue me.

The hand stroking my bicep stilled and I waited for her to take advantage of my current want for comfort. But that was all. Her hand just stilled and she glanced once in my direction, a warm look, a not-quite smile on her face, and she returned to watching the television.

After the rest of the Interviews were over, everyone left the room for dinner. I had swallowed all three of my drinks, the yellow cordial one not bad on the way down, but had a rather strange aftertaste of pine nuts.

Dinner was a quiet affair, though more decadent than what we've had all the previous nights. The atmosphere was heavy, and Rowan encouraged Gabriella and I to eat as much as we could, giving no reason why but we already knew the answer. He pointed out food he said had 'staying power' and kept repeating the words 'low G.I.' even though we  _clearly_  had no idea what G.I. was or why it mattered why foods had that ingredient in it. But we complied and stuffed our faces till we were filled to bursting.

And then we got a special dessert. The mute servants brought out elongated glass dishes, one for each of us, filled with three scoops of vibrant pink-bordering-on-scarlet ice-cream covered in sauces and various nuts and edible adornments. Cameria clapped her hands and cackled at her ice-cream and even Rowan looked confused.

"Don't you understand?" Cameria cried excitedly, bouncing in her seat. I was one blown-nerve short of just thumping my head against the table endlessly. "It's raspberry ice-cream, right?" Rowan was the only one polite enough to nod. "But it's special! This is the special Quarter Quell ice-cream!" We all, everyone at the table, bowed our heads to look at our desserts in unison. My bloated stomach tightened as some crimson, liquefied ice-cream bled out of the frozen lump. I saw tiny little number twenty-fives imbibed throughout the dish; in the ice-cream or in tiny (apparently edible) beads adorning the chocolate sauce. "And raspberry was voted flavour of the Games too!" Cameria continued to babble. I shared a shaky glance (from my end) with Darwin, who smiled and scooped up a huge portion of ice-cream and spooned it into his happy mouth, and I realised, just because it was red and so was blood and I was already full, why not eat it? That didn't mean anything. So I dished pretty much a whole globe of ice-cream onto my spoon, nuts, twenty-fives, sauces and all, into my mouth, and beamed back, feeling a trickle of melted dessert run from the corner of my mouth to my chin. I crunched my way through raspberry seeds and creamy, sugary mess until my bowl was just the melted dreggy remains of almost-red, creamy soup.

Once everyone was done and we had been dismissed from the table, Rowan pulled Gabriella and me aside, looking grim and strained. He was close enough I could see the natural brown of his hair on the roots of the acid-green colour, and see the light reflected off the gems in his teeth. He then gestured for Lexandra (meaning Darwin) and soon the couple were joining us too.

"I can't keep you long." Rowan started, blunt and brash, but his face softened. "You two..." Rowan said to us, and I was instantly uncomfortable. I was accepting that lately people were talking to us like we were on our deathbeds, but it didn't mean I liked it, especially when it was my mentor doing it. He placed one hand on each of our shoulders. My throat closed.  _This is it.._.I thought. "Have been  _brilliant_." Rowan looked us in the eyes alternatively, and I felt Gabriella shift beside me.

"Ditto," Darwin smiled from behind Lexandra. "Isn't that right, Lexi?" He took Lexandra's hand to draw her attention and, when she had faced him serenely, pointed to us, mainly Gabriella. I felt Gabriella stiffen as the emancipated lady turned to face us and Lexandra's dreamy smile grew wider. I had heard this woman laugh but never had she said a word in front of me. I'd imagined it was always because she couldn't speak, but maybe it was just because I hadn't been listening.

Lexandra opened her mouth but turned uncertainly to meet Darwin's eyes. He nodded towards us encouragingly, and her smile returned as she faced Gabriella and me again. She took a breath in and I expected some wise words, some great advice, something  _meaningful_.

" _Thank you_ ," she whispered, and her voice, like the sounds of fluttering, dying leaves in the middle of autumn or moths wings on a windowpane, remained in my head for the rest of the night.

\----

I suppose it was typical that I couldn't sleep. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow per se, but I'm pretty sure my subconscious was very aware of the impending threat that I may not be alive tomorrow night that it coerced the rest of my body to be prepared for fight or flight by pumping adrenaline around. The excessive energy, coupled with my belly complaining that I had overeaten and wasn't thankful for that, kept me very much awake. After about an hour of lying curled in bed I decided to tough it out and watch some television, maybe get some tips.

I padded out to the dim lounge room with bare feet and fumbled with the remote, glad that the sound system seemed to be on the quiet setting so it didn't blare out loudly when I turned on the television and wake everyone up. Sitting cross-legged on the centre of the couch, I achieved in getting an appropriate channel for my needs this time, not some crappy music channel this time or a cartoon about a plasticine cat or something equally useless. The channel I had flicked it to was just showing the end of another recap of the Interviews. I was about to change it when some announcers, not Emlyn and Bunny but two elderly Capitolites who seemed to be pretty serious, appeared in plush armchairs in a fancy mansion-like set, opening a show which they called this year's  _Tribute Reviews_.

A picture of the girl from District One popped up, an official picture, and the presenters started  _evaluating_  her; her chances of survival based on her performance at the Tribute Parade, her training score and her Interview. And by review did I mean  _review_. They took ten whole minutes to dissect every little thing about this girl and told the audience just how likely it was for Katti Meow-Meow to win this year's Hunger Games. The assessment included snippets of people from the crowd answering questions on what they thought about District One's female, what the presenters themselves thought about the Tributes and photos, both official and even poor-quality photos that were obviously taken with an unprofessional camera by someone who was definitely not a photographer of the Tributes. I don't even know how they got most these photos as we were supposed to be mostly hidden from the general public for a majority of the time. In the end they didn't give her a score in itself, but District One had a pretty good chance of winning, they let us know.

I watched, gobsmacked, as these two elderly people assessed Tribute after Tribute. Let me just say, these people were as sharp as they were horrible. These two presenters totally destroyed the small stereotype I had built up about all Capitol residents being complete idiots. Their analytical skills were just shocking, and I was so absorbed that I almost forgot they would be reviewing me, right after Gabriella.

The presenters never fully excluded anyone from winning the Games, never actually said that one person had zilch chance of winning. I had to admit, my admiration for these people were growing, as was my vocabulary by watching them. Gabriella had, according to the two aged beings sitting in the plush thrones, a reasonable chance of survival if she kept a cool head and didn't overreact. A grainy, amateurish photo of Gabriella leaving the Training Centre at the end of a day appeared, where she was wiping a hand over her sweaty face, revealing some of the yellowing black eye I had given her where her makeup had run from the sweat. The presenters speculated, bantering back and forth for a full minute, on whether Gabriella had tumbled with another Tribute or simply run into a wall, clearly (and thankfully) not knowing how she truly got it, and her rates of winning rose by a smidgeon because this apparently brought out her 'fighting spirit'.

"Now we move on to District Seven's notorious male Tribute, Isaac Alldrenn," The female presenter deadpanned her words as she pulled out a couple of pieces of paper which I presumed had details about me on them and looked them over. A quality picture of me draped across the chair and grinning and winking at the camera at the Interviews appeared, and I must say I was pleased with my official picture. "An online poll has revealed about this little Tribute," She started again and I bristled slightly.  _Who's she calling little_? "Has been voted 'cutest competitor' of this year's Games, against tough competition such as Gerrad Powers of District Nine and the Raintree twins of District Eleven." She smiled blandly at the camera and her male counterpart rolled his eyes.  _Oh,_  I thought blankly, mouth gaping at the news of whatever poll this was,  _that's why she called me little._

"Like that'll help him at all," The male anchor grumbled, wiping his nose with a pale gold handkerchief.

"It just might, Jerry," She turned to him and raised a pencilled eyebrow. "Being almost eighteen and been given the title of 'cutest Tribute' is no easy feat. That will raise his votes for sure, especially with the post-Games high bidders." I squinted at the screen for a few seconds. High bidders? What do they bid for?

"We have two snippets of his fans and voters, don't we?" Jerry rumbled, and sure enough the screen changed to a video of a rather plain Capitolite news reporter standing in a throng of teenagers at, what seemed to be, a Hunger Games rally of some sort. Super.

"And who's your favourite?" The reported yelled over the noise of the cheering to a boy of probably around my age.

"Isaac, District Seven!" He replied instantly, looking ecstatic. His purple spiked hair was practically quivering in excitement. "He's  _so_  funny! And adorable!" He chirped into the microphone the reporter was holding out to him. I felt my eyebrows rise incredulously but shrugged it off; this was good news I guess, even if I did find it strange that a boy was calling me adorable. But I had long since accepted that things were different here in the Capitol than in the Districts.

The next clip was a male reporter this time in a different, quieter setting, speaking to a dumpy woman with dull green hair and very thick eyelashes. She must have already revealed that I was her favourite and I listened, with trepidation, to her words. "Oh, yes, I do so adore him, and of course I voted for him!" She purred unattractively into the camera. My heart thudded and I watched, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights, leaning closer to the television as if I wouldn't be able to hear her comments. "I'd so love if he won so I could meet him in person and pinch his... cheeks." I jerked back away from the screen, and thought how it was too late in the night for me to deal with this. I just continued to stare in shock at the television, as the clip was, thankfully, finished after that, and the two anchors returned to banter about the reality of me winning the Games. I wanted to pay attention to them, but all I could think of was that woman. Or, more likely, what she symbolised.

Was this what happened to all the Victors? I mean, were they just wanted for their bodies by their fans? The words  _high bidders_  returned to me, and I wasn't sure if my face went scarlet or paled astoundingly. But, the Victors could refuse, right? It wasn't possible for them to be  _forced_  into that... was it?

Oh, god.

I watched the rest of my review with detachment, chin resting on my knees as I hugged them to my chest. I was given a decent, but not overly hopeful, chance of survival due to the sponsors I'd probably received for my status as the cutest Tribute, but I'd have to show some genuine talent in the Arena or my chances would diminish fast.

I watched the others' chances before I went to bed, though I did it with impassiveness, staring a little to the left of the television, and most of what I heard went in one ear and out the other. What I did retain slowly clawed the hole in my stomach wider as I heard that Marhkuhs had a great chance of killing people with his bare hands if he could get close enough and if they weren't the 'acquaintances' he claimed he made during the week, or that Honeysuckle and Rhododendron were as good as dead the moment they rose up into the Arena tomorrow.

Gracewyn had the best chance of all of us, her strength and score getting her the sponsors who valued power and her beauty and poise reeling in the sponsors who wanted her alive for... other reasons.

Jonathan, despite having the best reaction in the Interviews, was reviewed as almost a songbird; good to look at and to listen to, but no real purpose, though they reprimanded themselves when they talked about his Training score. I ended up switching the television off three quarters of the way through the highlights of Jonathan's interview, right after he finished singing, and running to my room. I couldn't take any more, and I buried my face into my pillow, knowing that I should try to sleep sometime before tomorrow. His song was ringing through my head.

 

_Only fools rush in._

 

I tugged the blankets and sheets out from where they were tucked underneath the mattress and cocooned myself tightly in them, face still smushed into the pillow. I bit at it, pulling my arms tight by my side and flexing my legs so it felt as though all the muscles in my body were stretching, and I nosed impossibly further into my pillow. What was I doing?

 

_Take my hand, take my whole life too._

 

One by one, I relaxed the muscles; unclenching my fingers and toes, softening my arms unwinding my coiled legs. I could do this, I could sleep, I could.

 

_My whole life..._

 

I relaxed my eyelids last from where they'd been screwed up tight, and stopped biting my pillow. I gave a long, mournful sigh, and I felt my mind finally drift off.

_Take..._

 

My last conscious thought was, strangely, the memory of a silver necklace and hair that even combs couldn't tame. It was comforting, a little breath of fresh air in this godforsaken, polluted city. My chest filled slowly, comfortably, with warmth and I swear my lips almost smiled.  _I'm not scared..._  I murmured sleepily into my pillow, only fractionally noticing the damp spot where I had drooled on it when biting before.

_I'm not scared,_  the feeling was stronger now, and sleep closed around me.

_I'll be home soon_.

 ----

"Wakie wakie, eggs and bakie!" a voice chirped shrilly into my ear, and I all but snarled at the offending, high pitched tone. "C'mon, baby, up, up, up!" A hand shook my shoulder and I moaned to tell my next murder victim that I was awake. I took a deep breath in through my nose and then sat up slowly, the blankets pooling around my thighs, flexing my jaw and sucking my cheek to relax it from where it was stiff from sleeping on it all night.

"Up and at 'em, Ike, it's a big day today!" The voice I now tagged as Celestial Shimmer's scratched slowly and incessantly at my dull mind, and I mumbled sleepily in response, ready to flop back down onto the pillows and the nest I had made out of the blankets again.

And then it  _actually_  registered that I was sleeping on a comfortable bed (always suspicious), in a room with good-standard artificial light (and that joyously means it's before dawn as well) and  _Celestial Shimmer had woken me up_  and my eyes snapped open to full awareness in a second. Which was a bad idea as I was blinking tears from my blinded eyes for the next few minutes, but it got the ball rolling in my drowsy mind.

Today was a big day  _indeed_.

Celestial rushed me to the roof after that, dropping lots of "sweethearts" and "sugars" along the way (we were surrounded by the mute servants, so she was showering me with motherly love). We just had enough time to get me into a simple pair of light cotton pants and an airy shirt before my stylist was pinching and plucking at my biceps, trying to usher me along. The roof we went to was not the private garden that belonged to the District Twelve Tributes but a flat, grey plain where we stood for a few moments before a hovercraft appeared silently overhead and dropped a ladder down for us. Some sort of current froze me in place while I was clinging to the ladder, which was nice of them, I thought, until we reached the interior of the hovercraft and a man in a white coat and fricken safety goggles stuck my arm with a  _huge_  needle, explaining to me that this was my tracker, so they don't lose me in the arena. This was  _not_  nice of them.

There's the word. I hadn't heard it yet today, but there it was.  _Arena_. I was locked in place on the ladder, so I couldn't even widen my eyes in fear, and I guess I was grateful, and it also shook off the last traces of sleep off of me. But as soon as the  _pipe_  they'd stuck in to my arm was removed the ladder let me go and, as I didn't expect it, I sort of half-crumpled to the ground. I was lucky I had kept my grip on the rungs.

I scuttled nervously after one of the mute servants as the ladder descended again for Celestial, and found a room where breakfast has been set up. I took a seat, keeping a rhythmic jingle in my knee, and when Celestial joined me I started eating as much as I could, which is to say, not much. I got down a bowl of hot, grainy stew that was drizzled with honey, and half a piece of toasted bread, drinking two glasses of juice before switching to water.

The flight took  _forever_. I kept sipping water all through it, and it was ironically pleasant to watch the sky light up from a dusty gold to a brilliant blue as the sun rose. After maybe an hour in flight the windows suddenly blacked out (freaking me out  _much_  more than I'd like to admit) and the atmosphere changed. I could sense that were weren't going horizontal any more, but descending, and then there was a feeling of  _stillness_  as the engines were cut and the doors opened, silent servants seeing Celestial and I out of the craft (on ladders again) and down to the classy caverns underneath the arena.

There was about a minutes' walk to my little Launch Room beneath the arena, and I took a moment to revel in the simpleness that this would be one of the last moments that no one would be trying to kill me. When we arrived, Celestial sent me to the shower with a wave of her hand, and I took a short, hot one, revelling in the steam and heat to try all remedies I knew to remove the frustrations from my body. I cleaned my teeth once I was out, and then met Celestial Shimmer back in the Launch Room where she told me I took too long and that my clothes had already arrived.

She helped me into soft green cargo pants that were a little on the bulky side and had three pockets on each leg and were so long the cuffs trailed on the floor, which Celestial told me was intentional. She quickly threaded a broad belt through the loops on the pants and buckled it tight, ignoring my groans with a sour expression. The shirt was weird; dark blue with sleeves ending at the top of the biceps, and made of a waterproof material that was so skin-tight you could see the definitions of  _everything_  it covered.  _So much for privacy,_  I thought, as I traced the bottom of my ribs and the waves of my stomach through the shirt.

After Celestial had tucked the shirt into my pants, she put some thin, clingy socks on my feet and then slid thick, brown, lace-up boots on top, knotting them fiercely. She tucked the cuffs of my pants into my boots and told me about the treads on the soles of the shoes and how they were good for running. It would have been a good conversation if I had known what treads  _were_.

Before she put the last piece of clothing on me she reached into her pocket and withdrew her hand clenched into a fist. Dangling from one end was the silver signet necklace, no longer tarnished but shiny and bright, like it was new. The carved initials stood out vividly against the thin disk on the end of the chain, and I was caught off guard at how  _beautiful_  the chain looked now it wasn't dull and speckled with brown. Celestial clipped it behind my neck, her navy blue lips twitching into the ghost of a smile as she tucked it into my shirt. The metal was cold on my sternum but the weight was comforting. I couldn't believe I had forgotten about the necklace.

With sadness I realised I couldn't recall the girl who had given me the necklace's face, just her unruly hair and that she had had freckles. Chewing my lower lip, I ran my fingers over the slight bulge in my shirt where the necklace was, and then Celestial was getting out the last piece of clothing in the box and shaking it out.

It was a high-collared, woollen, zip-up greatcoat with breast pockets on either side, and zip pockets on the waist. After you zipped it up there was a button flap over the zipper, right up to your throat, and the cuffs of the arms went to where my fingers split from the meat of my hand. It was a dull green colour, almost the same as my pants, and it ended with a double hem line at mid-thigh length. It was heavy and warm, but Celestial didn't zip it up so it hung loose and open about my torso and hips.

"Shouldn't the  _jacket_  be waterproof and the shirt be woollen?" I asked Celestial confusedly, and she pursed her star-studded lips as if the thought hadn't occurred to her.

"I'll suggest it for next year," She answered me, and I rolled my eyes. Because that suggestion would be so much help to me  _next_  year. "You comfortable?" Her question unnerved me, as there was no one else in the room so she didn't have to be nice to me. Still, I walked around the perimeter of the room once, skating far around the metal plate, and nodded my assent. "Right. Then we wait for the call, now," She seated herself on the couch but I couldn't join her, I was too nervous.

I bounced on the spot for a few moments before considering another glass of water. But I didn't feel even remotely thirsty and, knowing my odds, I'd need to pee before I could get far enough away from the other Tributes and then I'd be killed while wetting my pants. And that would be very embarrassing for this year's most adorable Tribute.

I scowled at the thought but I didn't stay sour for long as a monotonous female voice sounded from no visible source and asked me rather politely to ready for Launch. I saw Celestial stand up as I shakily appraised the metal plate I was to stand on to ascend into the arena.

"Come on, Isaac," she said quietly, and I felt her hand softly push into the small of my back through the thick material, guiding me. I stumbled over to the plate, and almost fell as I took my position.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," I apologised, but I don't know what for or even who I was apologising too. I looked at Celestial desperately, shaking from head to toe, and, again, she surprised me and gave me what I needed.

"Head up, kiddo." She snapped, but I saw in her eyes that the brash tone didn't run further than skin deep. "You're not afraid, are you?"

Heart still pounding, knees still shaking, I quelled the fear rising in my stomach, contained it, and pushed it down. "N-n-" I started, mouth betraying me, and she narrowed her eyes at me. I tried again.

"No," I barked, and the glass tube lowered around me, sealing me off from everyone but myself. But I still needed to get the words out, so I continued.

"No," I said, "I'm not scared." But I was. I wouldn't admit it to myself, but right then, in that moment, I was  _terrified._


	11. Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cannons informed me that seven people had died in the bloodbath. Seven was... not a lot. Man, usually it was about ten or eleven who died in the bloodbath. I didn’t let myself wonder who the six undetermined to me were. I did hope that no one I knew had died today. Big ask, though. But, then again, the day was only beginning. Plenty of time for more deaths.
> 
> How optimistic.

I expected the cylinder to rise straight after I was sealed off. But I stayed where I was and I thought _okay, this must be normal, right?_

But then I saw Celestial’s eyebrows crease in puzzlement and I realised that no, this was far from normal. The panic started to rise in me again, and I slapped my right hand on the glass, looking around. My left arm jerked and the hand attached slapped into the glass wall close to my side, right on the knuckle, and I swore at the pain. Now was _not_ the time for nervous jitters.

Hearing the muffled _smack_ sound from my hand, Celestial zoned back in on me from where she had been eyeing empty space in apparent thought, and held up her hands in the universal gesture for ‘ _calm down_ ’, frowning at me. My fast breaths were fogging up the glass in front of my face and I wiped it away hastily to mouth ‘ _what’s wrong?’_ to Celestial through the soundproof glass, to which she shook her head at me, worry in her eyes.

Just as the dread in me was rising to an uncontrollable height and the waiting was reaching the time of two minutes, the plate moved suddenly, rising upwards, and I yelped in surprise. I saw Celestial swiftly move close to the glass, trying to convey words to me, but I was ascending too fast to see what she was saying. I quickly entered darkness for a short amount of time, and then I saw bright, white light above me a few seconds before it enveloped me, along with a cold wind and the stench of garbage.

Blinded for only a few seconds, I blinked rapidly to clear out my vision, trying not to wobble too much by my recent freedom of space. If I moved off my plate I'd be blown to pieces, and while I had toyed with the idea of dying that quickly when I thought it was either that or drown, now, with _this_ arena, there was no way.

Because I was standing in a _city_.

As Bunny Crosswire’s voice rang out of the air, announcing it that the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games were beginning, I realised it wasn’t a ruined city, and it wasn’t even the burnt out husk of a city visited by nuclear war. This was a proper _urban jungle_. Yes, it didn’t look as modern as the Capitol, but it had the look of a city that had been vacated just yesterday. There was even a crumpled newspaper rolling across a road in the foul wind.

We were spaced around what I presumed was the city centre; skyscrapers with fourteen floors and glass entry doors surrounding us, side-alleys and roads running off in every space a building was not.  There were footpaths outside the buildings with manholes in them as well as the road, and gutters on the curb. There was a smell like garbage and too many people with the hint of a slightly acrid undertone, like burnt rubber, hanging in the air. The sight and smell of it all was overbearing, powerful and _ugly_.

While the wind was tugging at my greatcoat, my eyes were darting around looking at the available resources. The closest thing to me was a freaking _hat_ , not a woollen beanie that _may_ have been of some use, but a _fluoro yellow hard hat_ like the woodworkers and construction people wore back in Seven. Which may be helpful, but there was no way I was getting that. It would be too easy to spot and too awkward to carry. Further along was a loaf of bread, and a glistening package a few metres to the left of that. The resources got better and more valuable the closer to the gleaming Cornucopia they were, but as much as my eyes searched, I could not see a whip. But whips were small and though I couldn’t find one now didn’t mean there were none here.

The Cornucopia was surprisingly empty, from what I could see; there were containers of water, a few tents, a ragtag assortment of clunky weapons and, from what I could see, rather good quality food. From previous years I could have sworn the Cornucopia was usually power stocked: the items in the mouth stacked up to the roof, and no shortage of weapons. But here, all I could see was maybe a spear or two, one decrepit bow (I couldn’t even see the arrows) and daggers that would look more at home in a child’s play kitchen than here.

Storing my confusion to the back of my mind, I decided now was not the time to be thinking of kiddie kitchens, and now I had to plan where to go and what to do; what direction to run in and what to grab on my way there.

Very suddenly, I heard a shrieking cry from my right. I turned my head quickly to see the girl from District Three crying and shaking, not even trying to hide it from the cameras. She turned to look all around her, eyes wide and streaming tears. In her hand was a small yellow handkerchief which I presumed was her District token, and my heart thudded painfully as she placed her feet heavily when she completed the 360.

She kept howling, and I knew about thirty seconds of our minute had gone by. This girl had been crying since day dot. I remembered her Reaping, where she had to be thrown on stage, and her just sitting still all the Training days, not even attempting to learn, just trying to get out of the building every so often. I don’t remember her Interview, but if there was one thing I’d bet, it was that she had cried during it.

She let out another moan and then a full bodied sob, which is when everything changed. It rocked her forward, and it didn’t even look like she tried to stop herself. She just let her torso lean out and her foot follow through like you do when you stumble and step out to regain your balance. But here, at least for the next twenty-five seconds, there was no room to step out.

I managed to cry “Hey, wait, _no-_ ” before her foot made contact with the cracked concrete footpath her metal plate was planted in the middle of, and I had the good enough sense to crouch as the blast shook everything slightly. I felt something like rain splatter me softly, and I blinked in surprise, feeling the blood run down my face, staying in my crouched position with my eyes wide and my face frozen.

It didn’t seem real, but as I slowly recovered I realised I mustn’t have much time left. Letting out only a soft sob of distress, I stood up shakily, looking down and assessing the state of my whole right side. Which was, needless to say, covered in a light pattering of blood.

I tried to get my head back in the game but I was stunned. That bomb mustn’t have been your usual run-of-the-mill exploding cartridge as it caused her _body_ to almost _implode_ rather than the whole blow-up-the-ground-in-a-rain-of-fire kind of thing. It must be a special bomb used in the place of the normal bombs to spare the other Tributes the shower of concrete and heavy-duty debris that would have surely thundered upon us if that thing had blown up the ground.

I cast a quick glance at the person who had been on the other side of District Three’s girl, and saw them not much better off than I was. They at least had their sight set back on the Cornucopia, and I was about to do that as well when the gong sounded, and I was surprised _yet again_. This was not a good start for me.

I stumbled off the plate, and then started running towards the golden horn. Rethinking this plan, I stopped for a second and then crouched and grabbed the bread and the shiny plastic package next to it, only daring to sprint a little closer to the bloodbath in search of a backpack. Realising that this, too, was a bad plan, I turned away, with only a package and a (I was willing to bet stale) loaf of bread in my hands, and sprinted for the closest opening between the buildings to where I was.

The clang of weapons and the cries of the blood-thirsty and the dying started as made it into the first pathway between two buildings. _Please, please, please_ , I prayed desperately as I ran, licking my lips and deeming that another bad choice as I tasted blood, hoping that nothing would spear me in the back as I ran away. Thankfully, the path I had followed was a road and not a dead-ended alleyway, and I ran up that, not knowing whether the long straight highway of asphalt was a blessing or was going to get me easily seen and killed. It was awkward running with both hands full, the bread crumbling slightly under my tight grip, but I'd rather eat broken bread than drop it. I could’ve turned and gone into a building here, but I was willing to bet that as soon as the bloodbath was over the strong Tributes with the alliance would start searching the buildings nearest to the Cornucopia, so the further I could get away, the better.

The road led to an intersection where I could either run left or right. I chose right immediately for no reason in particular, and kept running. The road kept turning, and I soon lost track of the way back to the centre, but that didn’t particularly bother me. I caught a glimpse of another Tribute once when an alleyway between two buildings led to another road and I saw a girl running the opposite direction to what I was through it, though she did not see me.

In an insane moment I thought to run after her, sneak up and... What? Brain her with my almighty loaf of bread? I quashed the idea and kept running, noting sadly that she had a backpack and I didn’t. She was the last person I saw for a while.

After the first half hour of half-running, half-jogging I moved into a fast walk, because, let’s face it, I didn’t have that much stamina to run for more than thirty minutes, and then after another hour of that I progressed to a normal pace of walking. Just as I started the normal pace, so about an hour and three-quarters into the Games, the first cannon fires rung through the Arena. The sound shocked my highly-strung nerves so much that before I recognised what they were I had thrown myself onto the ground, arms above my head, cowering in fear. _Quick reflexes, check,_ I remembered Rowan saying to me on the train ride here, but the thought far from made me smile.

The cannons informed me that seven people had died in the bloodbath. Seven was... not a lot. Man, usually it was about ten or eleven who died in the bloodbath. I didn’t let myself wonder who the six undetermined to me were. The only death I knew of was the girl whose blood I wore. Though I did hope that no one I knew had died today. Big ask, though. But, then again, the day was only beginning. Plenty of time for more deaths.

How optimistic.

For three hours after the first cannon fires, I wound my way through streets until the tight clutters of skyscrapers dispersed into two-floor flats and then into suburban houses. There wasn’t another soul in sight, and though my pace was steady, my mouth was tight and my eyes were darting in every direction, ears straining. I was in no way at peace. And, though I knew there would be any number of cameras on me at this moment, I had never felt so alone. No, alone isn’t the right word. I had never felt so _isolated_.

As I strode through suburbia, my feet were hurting, even in my ugly hiking boots and my fancy treads, and the palms of my hands were getting sweaty from holding on to the bread and the package for so long. _Maybe_ , I suggested to myself, _it’s time for a break_.

I swung around in a complete turn, taking in everything, noting any signs of movement. The powerlines overhead swayed in the wind and buzzed a little, and the wind chimes hanging from one of the house’s front porch jingled merrily to no one. While it was deserted I darted into one of the more ramshackle houses, but not going in far, just through the (unlocked) front door to sit underneath the window complete with thin, floral curtains, facing the road I had just come off.

I hesitantly placed my shiny package on the floor in front of me as well as the bread next to it, and observed them. The bread wasn’t sliced, and the package had no label on it. Unbuttoning the single flap on the parcel, I pulled out a sheet of plastic with a hole in the middle and a cowl to go over the hole. That’s it, that’s all it was. And then I realised what I had made off with. A loaf of bread and a _poncho_. My biggest spoil of war from the bloodbath was a _poncho_.

Fuming, I attempted to fold up the poncho to put it back into its packaging nicely, but to no avail, as it wouldn’t fit back in. Gritting my teeth, I continued on with my silent struggle for five minutes, but no matter which way I folded it, it would not fit in. My last attempt before I would give up was no folding, just stuffing it back into the plastic. And, lo and behold, it fit, albeit crumpled and creased. I was tempted to swear like a sailor if I wasn’t sure it would lead other Tributes to me or if it would get my title of ‘cutest Tribute’ taken off me. And as much as I disliked that label, it was possibly earning me sponsors, so I decided I should at least attempt to keep it.

I sat cross-legged under the window for a while, observing the little room of the house I was in at that moment, complaining internally about my sore feet. This seemed to be the sitting room for the abandoned house, with two floral-patterned armchairs (with matching cushions on them) placed around a small coffee table. There was a pale blue, thin carpet beneath my legs and three doors leading into the room, including the one I came through.

When my feet’s complaints had died down to small whines, I got up and hesitantly explored the house. It was a one-storey, two-bedroom kind of shack, with ugly brown-and-yellow wallpaper, a stained kitchen and strange-smelling furniture. When I checked them hurriedly, the kitchen cupboards were empty or cluttered haphazardly with useless items such as window-cleaner in spray-bottles or sponges (surprise, surprise, thanks for nothing) and the bathroom’s medicine cabinet had strange bottles and vials I wasn’t even game to touch.  Slightly parched, I turned on the tap in the bathroom, only to find the water was a rusty shade of brown. I decided wasn’t that thirsty (yet) and turned away.

Wow, I was becoming soft. I wouldn’t even drink brown water any more. The Capitol has had a bad effect on me.

The bedroom seemed harmless enough, just a plain, stripped double mattress on a wooden base, one chest of drawers and a small cupboard. A small window was above the chest of drawers, and there was a mirror on the cupboard door, giving me the first glimpse of my blood-splattered face. Sadly, all I could think of was that I did not look cute.

I took a few minutes in front of the mirror, vainly trying the scrape the blood off my face with my blunt nails. After almost scratching my eye out, I remembered there was a bathroom here and while the water was undrinkable to someone with my high water standards (darn Capitol), I could use it to wash.

I munched on my (yes, stale) bread idly as I gave the house another short once-over, even venturing outside and around the back of the house to see if there was anything of use. There wasn’t, so I returned to the bedroom and opened the closet, hoping to find some clothes or anything that could be of use. Instead I found a few long, velvety, ugly dressing gowns that I didn’t think could be of use even to bandage wounds. I tied up my bread in its plastic, not even bothering to let the air out of the bag as it was already stale, and dangled it loosely out of one hand as I examined the closet. On the shelf above the gowns was a faded, navy-blue beanie which I snatched in delight, only to drop it again at the suspicious-looking mothballs that rolled out of it.

As I was about to shut the door I pushed the dressing gowns out of the way to peer tiredly into the back of the cupboard, toeing the beanie out of the range of the swinging door as I did so. A glint of silver caught my eye and I hastily did a double-take, sucking in a quick huff of breath at the fact that there was a _sword_ at the back of the cupboard. A _sword_. And not a wooden one, either, but an honest-to-goodness slim, silver sword with a carved hilt and sharpened point and everything.

Oh _my_.

I snatched it up quickly, throwing my bread over my shoulder to the direction of the bed out of the choice of using both my hands to excitedly examine the slender piece of sturdy metal. But just as I balanced the hilt in my right hand and the flat of the blade in my left, there was a loud popping sound mixed in with the muffle snap like gloved hands clapping from behind me, and I whirled around with a yelp.

My bread had made it to the mattress it seemed, and the bag it had been in had popped due to the air I left inside it and the fact that the mattress seemed to have bent in the middle and closed like a trap. I stared at the bed in stunned silence as each end slowly started to open again and return to its horizontal position, the crushed, sorry remains of my bread left in the middle.

I let out the breath I had been holding in a long sigh, shocked into wide-eyed stillness as I continued to stare at the now normal bed. Thank god I hadn’t sat on that off-white mattress or it might have been me crushed into flatbread instead of, well, my flat bread.

Remembering I was in fact holding a deadly weapon, I looked down at my hands to find out that, unfortunately, it seemed I gripped things tighter when frightened, and the adrenaline in my blood didn’t allow my brain to register, well... the blood.

It was a long cut, probably running the width of my left palm, but it wasn’t too thick and not too deep. I ended up ripping a few strips off of the thin curtains on the living room windows and bandaging my hand with them. It was kind of awkward cutting curtains with a sword, but I managed and I hoped I was showing on the televisions right now so potential sponsors could see that I could at least look after minimal injuries without freaking out.

After I fixed up my hand as best I could, I returned to the bedroom (again), eyeing the bed warily. I didn’t know what to do, but my throbbing hand and aching feet were begging me not to do much, whatever I chose.

It was a very sad fact that I was tired after only half a day’s steady walking. I felt ashamed that my feet hurt, but they hurt nonetheless. My mind was also foggy, overloaded with too many emotions and shocks to keep me alert enough to continue my journey away from the city centre.

 _And really_ , my tired brain told me, _did I have to keep moving_? I mean, I was in a nondescript house with minimal dangers, was pretty far away from where the other Tributes would be searching and what were the chances they’d come my way? _And_ , I thought as I looked down at my sword that I was holding loosely in my right hand, _I have this_.

 _I could kill someone_.

I swallowed thickly but knew that it was necessary. I hadn’t thought about it yet, today, but I could see it, feel it, glimmering softly in the distance. A tiny ray of light, like daylight shining around a dark corner; a light at the end of this pitch-dark tunnel. I had a chance, I knew I did.

I could do this.

So I made myself and all of my two-and-a-half possessions at home in the bedroom, my hazy mind at least thinking up a decent plan of attack if perpetrators did end up finding me. I planned that I would sleep on the floor there in the bedroom, facing the door, so if someone did come in I could carry out what was necessary on my own ground. I had my sword and hopefully the upper-hand with the knowledge of the mattress-trap, so I may be able to trick them. I moved the mirror off of the cupboard door and out of the room, standing it on the corner of the hall so I could see if someone was coming down and be a little prepared.

There had been no cannon fires since the announcement with the bloodbath, and I didn’t know how to feel. I was conflicted; did I feel happy that only seven people had died, which meant some of my comrades were still alive? Or did I feel stressed about the very same fact? It was weird to think that the next time I saw Jonathan it could be when he was trying to kill me. I presumed he was physically stronger than me, and that presumption became more of an acceptance as I thought about his coiling muscles and strong arms that were thicker and harder than my own ropey, pale ones. I swallowed thickly as a nightmarish thought ambushed me of Jonathan pinning me down and wrestling the sword out of my flimsy grip, then holding the edge of the blade against my throat, putting just enough pressure on it that I could feel the tickling, itching sensation that was the outer layers my skin just starting to unknit as he grinned manically at me. Or Gabriella. She would definitely be trying to kill me, and I had a vision of her creeping up my hallway right then, knife at the ready, hands itching to creep around my throat.

I looked down at the sword in my hands and was thankful I looked in closets for things. I mean, at least I had some sort of protection. I wondered if other houses had any weapons in them.

I bit my lip, chewing it thoughtfully as I deliberated. Would it be worth the chance of running from house to house around here and looking for weapons? Or was it simple lucky chance that this house had a sword and that it was the only weapon for this precinct of houses? And I had already been in here for a few hours after the cannon fires, so who knew how close any other Tributes were. I ended up shrugging and deciding to stay in this house, as I had already set up camp in here, and, well, come on. I had a _sword_.

 ----

               I didn’t know what time night fell, as all the clocks I could find in this house had stopped at 5.14, am or pm I didn’t know, though there were two crazy devices that I presumed from their shape were clocks I found that read 17.14, whatever that meant. But one moment I was sitting on the floor of the bedroom, knees raised and feet planted on the ground, awkwardly scraping the carpet on the floor with the point of the sword as I hummed and sat in a small patch of sunlight, and the next time I looked out the little window birds had landed on the powerlines and the sky was gradually turning to a dusky orange.

Scrambling to my feet I abandoned the sword to jog clumsily down the hall and to the sitting room where I first came into this house. I knelt by the window and shoved the ragged curtains out of the way to get a clear view of the sky, watching the abyss darken above me. This sunset was ugly; as ugly as the one I saw in the Capitol, maybe even uglier because, this time, there was no warm weight next to me and a voice singing the Everdeen family songs. This sky was hideous, a powdery pallet no matter what colour it was, and it could almost taste polluted. Even as the orange threw the west side of the sky into flames, it sickened me. There was just a fake hue to it that could never match a true sunset, and as much as the Capitol tried, I doubt they’d ever get it right. You can’t match the raw beauty of nature when you’re destroying it at the same time.

I was still grumbling when the first blares of the Capitol anthem ricocheted off the streets and houses, making me flinch and peer more earnestly up at the sky, which was now a royal blue, the east studded with the first few silvery pinpoints of stars while the west was still glimmering with the last throws of orange. My heart thudded as I craned my neck to see the Capitol seal fully, and I ended up with my cheek and a hand pressed against the cool glass of the window, back bowed awkwardly with my other hand scrabbling at the windowsill to see the sky clearly without going outside. I guess I could’ve gone out on to the front lawn, but I'd felt vulnerable even suggesting the idea to myself.

The seal disappeared, and the sky was momentarily dark and I was blinking spots out of my vision with the sudden loss of the glaringly blue symbol. Then the first person to appear is the girl I was still wearing despite my efforts; District Three’s female. That meant both Tributes from Districts One and Two had gotten through. Grinding my teeth I hoped that insane Tribute from District Four had been killed, but my hopes were dashed the next second when the next picture to show was of Jerome Berhich of District Five, shortly followed by his female counterpart. Next came both Tributes from Six, which meant there was only two dead children left to reveal.

My breath stuttered next and I felt a swooping in my gut as Gabriella’s eyes glared down at me from the sky, menacing and flat as they looked at the camera. And she was gone; I’d never see her or her dark eyes or greasy hair or pointed chin or sharp eyebrows ever again. I swallowed thickly as I realised I'd never even said anything to her last time I saw her in person. But... I had no place to feel guilty, right? I mean, we weren’t friends, weren’t even acquaintances, really. The bubbling, hot feeling in my stomach was from the shock of the death of someone I knew, and that’s all.

That’s all.

The girl from District Nine’s face showed up next, blond hair spilling over her shoulders and then she was gone, too. The sky darkened and I sat back on to my heels, wiping a hand over my face. I walked back up to the bedroom and curled up in my greatcoat on the sparsely-carpeted floor next to the bed, impossibly tired at what I guessed was maybe 6.45 in the evening. Pathetic.

I pulled my flatbread and poncho towards me, tucking the poncho underneath my head as the worst pillow ever. After a week of sleeping on the world’s finest, it was just a tad uncomfortable, but I would have to manage as I wasn’t taking my coat off. The temperature had dropped now the sun was fully gone, and I hadn’t realised how scary the dark was until now.

I rolled on to my side, my back facing the bed and the sword, and I made sure I had a clear view of the doorway and the mirror at the hall. I convinced myself that I would wake up when someone entered the house, but, surely no one would. No one would be rude enough to traipse over my sanctuary when I was so incredibly tired.

Ah, well, I’ve been wrong before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I promised that it would get better and, here we are! Writing the Games was the best part of writing this story, and I hope you enjoy it too!


	12. Room to Grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart was pounding, and I was swearing a non-stop mantra through my head. I spun in a quick circle as I deliberated on what to do and my eyes landed on the bed. I decided, for all my bravado yesterday about being able to take someone, I couldn’t do it. Not yet. Panicked and on the brink of frustrated, about-to-die tears, I looked around the room one last time.
> 
> And spied the window.

“Timmy! Timmy, look!” My eyes snapped open as a harsh female voice echoed down the hall. I lay motionless and silent, absurdly still blinking sleepily, and the voice came again. They weren’t even whispering. No points for effort. “Timmy! Here, check out these curtains! Someone’s chopped ‘em!”

“Shut _up_ Estelle! What if they’re still here? God _damn_ you!” A male’s voice snapped in a harsh undertone now, though he made his own words redundant when heavy footfalls worked their way around what sounded like the living room. I sat up slowly, heart starting to pound as I watched the mirror with wide-eyes, grabbing my poncho and bread clumsily.

“But Timmy! It’s not like they can get out anyway!” I swallowed and rolled forward onto a crouching position as what I presumed was Estelle’s voice rang down the hall. From the mirror I saw a thick pair of legs cross the hallway from the sitting room to the kitchen and then the sounds of cupboards being opened and closed quickly. I crept forward to the door of the room only to scramble silently backwards as a second person followed the first into the kitchen.

“What do you think the water is like here?” Timmy’s voice echoed, and it seemed like he had taken Estelle’s words to heart as he totally wasn’t even trying to keep his voice down any more. There was the sound of a squeaky tap turning and water rushing, stopping quickly, and I heard a snort of derision. “Can’t drink that _neither_.”

“At least it’s not acid, or whatever was in those buildings in the city!” Estelle responded. “Katti was lucky her tongue didn’t fall out it was that badly burnt! And her gums- _eugh!_ ”

“Yeah, it was pretty gross,” Came Timmy’s amenable reply.

Note to self; no drinking in the city. Yikes.

“It seems like the nicer the house, the more dangerous it is,” Timmy continued.

My heart was pounding, and I was swearing a non-stop mantra through my head. I spun in a quick circle as I deliberated on what to do and my eyes landed on the bed. Harsh whispering came from the kitchen and I decided, for all my bravado yesterday about being able to take someone, I couldn’t do it. I definitely didn’t have the guts to just charge out there, sword in hand, and run them through. Not yet. Panicked and on the brink of frustrated, about-to-die tears, I looked around the room one last time.

And spied the window.

I sprang forward and put my handfuls down onto the chest of drawers to unlatch the window and swing it open. I bit my tongue callously and tasted blood as the window creaked sharply but shortly, and I sent a quick prayer to hope they hadn’t heard. But as I paused to listen, I heard nothing. And silence was _not_ golden.

I took a step back to see the mirror and found two shadowy silhouettes standing at the opposite end of the hall in the reflection. One was pointing at the mirror and had their head turned to the other, presumably whispering. The second was nodding and then turned to walk silently to the sitting room, whilst the first began creeping towards the bedroom. Perfect.

I held my breath and finished opening the window in one sharp movement, the creak ripping into my heart as well as shredding the silence. Then I dodged away to put my back to the wall with the door on my left, waiting with baited breath for the shadowy figure to come in.

I almost had a heart-attack when that insane boy from District Four pretty much sauntered through the peeling doorway, and I presumed that it was Timmy. I was literally so far pressed against the wall that my shoulder blades were squashed and I was standing on my toes, and I guess it must have worked as he didn’t seem to see me. And the camouflage lady said I sucked, too. If only she could see me now.

Timmy’s eyes flashed over the cupboard, the window and the bed, and then dropped to what I'd left on the floor. Because, of course, I'd left my _fricken sword on the ground_.

So, Plan A was screwed.

Timmy’s eyes flashed as he hurried forward to seize up the prize just there on the ground, dropping the backpack he had slung over one shoulder, and as I watched, he straightened up, admiring it with his back to me, and he even had the gall to _laugh_. Estelle was nowhere to be seen (or heard) and, well, the opportunity was perfect, as Timmy was mesmerised with the sword, holding it at eye-level and, for some strange reason, smelling it. I knew this kid was insane, but just as to _how_ insane was revealed to me when I realised he was smelling the place where the blood from the cut on my hand, _my_ blood, had stained the blade. Talk about unhygienic.

Biting my lip and clenching my hands into fists, I took two long strides forward until I was behind him, within a suitable distance. I took a deep breath in, which was not a good idea, as I saw Timmy physically stiffen as he heard my sniff, and I couldn’t resist. I felt the smile tug at my lips, dragging my bottom lip to the side from where it was still tucked under my incisors, and I leant in and blew a stream of cold air onto the back of his neck and whispered “ _Boo,_ ” before I lifted my right leg and slammed to flat of my boot onto the small of his back, sending him face first onto the mattress as he tried to turn and face me.

He didn’t even yell as the mattress clamped shut, but the weight of what I had done crashed down onto me as I heard things crunch and shift in there, and the cannon fire proved my point, and I was so horrified I couldn’t move for a moment. I heard Estelle call out and then she was headed in my direction, so I made myself move, grabbing Timmy’s discarded backpack off the floor and running for the open window, not even looking in the _direction_ of Timmy’s remains.

I don’t know how I did it, to be honest. In the short distance of the bed to the window I succeeded in somehow pitching the backpack out of the window, astonished that it actually sailed out without a hitch. I managed to vault out then, taking a running leap with both hand planted on my possessions on top of the chest of drawers and kicking off the floor, using the momentum to swing my legs under me and out the window with my torso sailing after them, poncho and bread clasped in my hands. I, too, landed outside the house soundly, and I wobbled on my feet for a moment, in awe of what had just happened.

I had never done something so athletic in my _life_. Gold _star_ , Isaac Alldrenn!

I took two seconds to unzip the pack and shove the poncho and breadcrumbs in there, then another two to close it again and heft in onto my shoulders, clipping it in place with the two small buckles across my chest and waist. Then I was off, sprinting around the side of the house and onto the road, not caring what direction I was going in, only that I was getting away from Estelle.

When I was about half way up the street she came barrelling out of the house, howling bloody murder. Which I guess she just witnessed, but anyway. I didn’t turn around or acknowledge her in any way except maybe running a little faster, but I don’t think she started chasing me. After about ten minutes of running, I realised I had entered the city outskirts again, and though I didn’t think it was the greatest plan ever, I decided to roll with it. Everything I had planned thus far had failed utterly, so a little improvisation might do me good.

I spied a tiny little side-alley behind a tall apartment building and an empty restaurant complex and jogged down there, slowing to a walk and scanning my surroundings frantically. I didn’t know how close I was to the centre but it was making me nervous. I wasn’t at all tired any more, though my feet were feeling tender and my thighs were burning after the run. I crept down the alley and decided to check what was in my pack while I was seemingly safe.

I squatted down behind some garbage cans to hide from plain sight in case anyone came by, and almost gagged on the stench. Like, ew, c’mon Capitol people, lift your game, this is disgusting.

Man, a week in the Capitol _did_ make me snobby, didn’t it?

I unzipped the pack and looked inside, hopeful. Rummaging around I found three medium-sized cans of preserved food, two packets of dried fruit and a one litre bottle of water, which made me cheer internally and take a short drink. There was also a torch, what I presumed was a compass, though I had never seen one close up before, a length of flimsy rope and the most crap-tacular dagger I had ever seen in my life. It was small, probably only about eight inches long including the handle, and looked only a little bit sharper than your average knife. I sneered at it as I put it back into the bag, standing up and stretching my achy legs as I did so.

I sighed, and slung the backpack over my shoulder, the unfamiliar weight making me stumble into one of the trash cans. I couldn’t stop the curse blurting out of my mouth nor the sound of harsh metal clanging on asphalt. I practically flew to the wall and pressed flat against it, digging quickly through the bag and withdrawing the knife as I waited. My injured hand throbbed as I strained it, and I hissed slightly as I waited for someone to show up.

No one came, and after about two minutes I slowly peeled myself off the wall to go toe through the trash can. And then, because apparently I'm a god and the fates smile upon me, I found a dagger in the trash. Yes, an honest-to-goodness _dagger_ under a banana peel and an empty tin can that still was dripping brown-ish fluid.

This was so much better quality than the crap-stick in my hand, though I kept them both, putting the dodgy one back into my bag and sliding the new one through my belt. Which was a bad idea as it was a little long, but I had the sense to remove it before it split open my thigh when I raised my leg too high by, y’know, _walking_. I ended up putting it securely in the little button-up side pocket of my backpack, which was just the right size. Bonus.

I couldn’t believe my good luck. First I had found a _sword_ (then lost it, but that’s not the point) and then, by complete accident, I had found another weapon. And both in the most random of places. That got me thinking; what if that was where all the good weapons were? I mean, all the weapons at the Cornucopia were _ridiculous_ \- I mean, the knife in my pack proved it. But maybe they were ruses- the dagger I had proved that there were better weapons out there, so there must be others. They were just hidden. And I bet I could find them.

A faint scream echoed then, and I'm sure it’s source was nowhere near me. It was followed shortly by a cannon fire, causing a grimace to appear on my face. I had to go. I was too nervous to stay in the city.

I managed to make it back out into suburbia by sunrise. I had encountered no one else, but by the time I had reached the waist-high grass field between two houses I was now struggling through, the cannon had fired once more. That was three dead today already, and the sun was just rising.

There was dew on the grass and it was soaking through my pants and coat, making them heavy and uncomfortable. I ended up shuffling my jacket off and continuing wading through the grass while holding it above my head. The same could not be said for my pants (though I don’t doubt there’d be many complaints to me taking them off), and by the time I’d reached the other side of the field ( _and_ noticed the gravel, grass-free path running adjacent to me about ten metres to my left) I was soaked from my thighs to my toes.

I took a moment then to congratulate myself. I had made it to day two of the Hunger Games with only a cut-up hand. I took a deep breath in of sweet, grass-scented air and smiled at the sky. Here on this side of the grass there was another bitumen street with ugly houses down them. I glanced around with narrowed eyes, but not even a curtain twitched and I could only hear the sound of the grass rustling in the breeze behind me. Said breeze was making my wet legs very cold, too, so I resumed walking to find some shelter, tucking my coat between my bag and my back to free my arms.

I needed to think of a plan of attack. Focus on staying alive, or find other Tributes? My stomach felt queasy at the thought of the latter, and I swallowed thickly, trying to decide if it was necessary or not. I turned up another road joining the one I was already on and started ascending up a short hill, watching left and right for any signs of movement. I chewed thoughtfully on my bottom lip as I processed the idea of allies. Truthfully, I didn’t want to make any alliances, because inevitably they'd die or attempt to kill me and that just wouldn’t be cool and I didn’t really want to go through that. And I admitted that I had already made a few too strong connections in the past week, and I couldn’t imagine being with those people in a dependant coalition here when so much was at stake.

I wondered what Marhkuhs with two h’s and a k was doing right now. Maybe he was one of the cannon fires I had heard this morning, and I didn’t know whether to hope that was true or not. I munched on some dried fruit as continued slowly up to hill. Damn this hill was steeper than I thought it would be. Should I hope that Marhkuhs was dead? I mean, what kind of ‘acquaintance’ was I if I thought that? The apple pieces tasted funny too. At a closer examination of the packet I found out that they were 40% apple _flavouring_. How hard was it to just dry apples these days? Maybe Marhkuhs was around here. Maybe he had seen me and was creeping up, acquaintance or no, long arms ready to break my neck. I think I was getting a runny nose. Damn, it’d be just my luck for all my good fortune to run out and I'd have to go on for the rest of the Hunger Games with hay fever. I hadn’t looked behind me in a while. On one of the training days Jonathan had said my neck was too slender for a boy’s neck, probably very easy to break-

Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I had my good knife out of my pack faster than I ever could have hoped, spinning quick and pitching it, adrenaline fuelling my throw. My breathing was harsh and scared as I took in the feral cat hissing at my poor aim as the dagger clattered on the asphalt awkwardly far off from its target before darting off under a house a little to my left.

I scrambled to pick my knife up, grazing my fingers on the rough ground, almost falling but balancing myself and spinning in a circle, eyes darting around restlessly but not really _seeing_ anything. I swore someone was here, I had _felt_ someone watching me, _felt_ their breath on the back of my neck, _felt_ their fingers reaching for me-

My own breath was now coming out in short, sharp gasps and I staggered to the side of the road, dropping my knife with a second clatter of metal on cement and collapsing down onto the curb. I put my head in my hands and attempted to calm down but I couldn’t. I felt prickling in my eyes and managed to keep the tears at bay but I could feel my nose running, and I didn’t have anything to wipe it on as my coat was slung between my back and my pack. I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched at my hair, grounding myself with the pain it brought me as I tugged on handfuls of black curls. I pressed my knees together and angled the heels of my feet out and my toes in so the tendons in my ankles were straining, and clenched my stomach beneath my tight shirt. I focussed on my body’s reactions, using my sense of feeling to calm myself down, letting the straining muscles and the tugging sensation on my scalp become the only thing I thought about as I tried to overcome the sudden panic attack.

After two minutes I felt I could open my eyes, but a quick glimpse of the blood still staining the whole right side of my pants compelled me to wait a few more minutes before trying again. And when I did crack them open a second time, I angled my head to the sky and took deep breaths in before slowly raising my eyelids. I pressed the thumb of my right hand into the cut on my left palm, hissing in pain at the vast blue plain above me. The pain was good though, and after another few lungfuls of air I was able to look straight ahead again.

Only to have _another_ heart attack.

“Good morning!” Jonathan chirped from where he was sitting cross-legged about two metres in front of me on the road. I jumped and skidded a few more metres away from him, clutching my chest in fright. “Quite a spectacle you were showing before,” He continued, smiling happily at me. I remained speechless and gazed at him wide-eyed until the smile fell from his face and his eyebrows creased in confusion. “Isaac?” He prompted, but I paid his words no attention as I searched his hands and body for weapons.

“Dude?” He stood up and moved closer to me, and though I didn’t move from where I was sitting I did cringe away, so he stopped his approach, empty hands outstretched. I took in a shaky breath and sniffed loudly, clenching my jaw. Right. Get back in the game, Isaac. You’re not scared.

“Hey, man,” I finally greeted, albeit croakily, and he relaxed a little, kneeling down in front of me. His eyes were a little paler than the sky today, which was a pretty shade of blue-grey, but he had blood splattered down the side of his neck and coat. He had no pack or weapons I could see, but I saw his hands in a new light and determined that he could definitely kill someone with those. “Fancy seeing you here.”

It was a weak joke, but he smiled all the same. “Fancy that,” he answered softly with a warm glimmer in his eyes. Then there was an awkward silence where we just stared at each other. I was marvelling at the fact that out of the fourteen remaining Tributes, he had been the one to find me. I had no clue what he was thinking, but it made me uncomfortable, this ambiguity. I swallowed thickly and it seemed to jolt him back to reality. His eyes flickered to my neck as it bobbed and then he turned away, smiling, and started humming a tune loud enough that I caught some words. “ _Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star,_ ” he crooned happily, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear, so I remained quiet, but I felt my shoulders relaxing. It was with surprise that I found myself noting that this was... nice. The weather wasn’t cold but it wasn’t hot, and the sun was shining over the top of the low buildings here. I knew I shouldn’t have been letting down my guard but Jonathan had moved over to where he had been sitting on the road just before and nodded his head along to the tune nobody could hear but him. The only thing uncomfortable was my heavy pants and the dark thoughts I had banished to the recesses of my mind. “ _One without a permanent scar, and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself,_ ” he looked at me then, a brilliant grin lighting up his face, and I instantly smiled back. It was an impulse, almost instinctual. It was impossible, when someone looked at you like he had just beamed at me, not to smile back. “ _Out there?_ ” I realised he had finished his _stanza_ and was now singing the rest of the song quietly.

I sat forward and coughed, bringing my backpack round to seat it in my lap and taking a small sip of water from where the container was kept in the side pocket. I knew I shouldn’t eat my food since I had eaten some dried apple before, though my stomach was still crying out that it was hungry. Some meat would’ve been nice but I wasn’t game to hunt feral cats and skin them and eat them _just_ yet, so tough bikkies, tummy. “ _But tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day and head back to the Milky Way?_ ” Jonathan was still singing happily as he sat across from me again, and when he caught my eye he smiled widely at me, showing perfect teeth, and continued. I sat there, lost in the moment, enjoying the song. “ _But tell me, did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven is overrated?_ ”

I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy his voice, lilting and golden in the warm sunlight, but I couldn’t forget where I was, so I only felt an increasing impression of sadness creeping up and fought tooth and nail to keep it away, though I knew the inevitable was coming. I sighed and looked at Jonathan as I felt on a whim that the song was coming to an end. His smile dimmed a little but was still warm as he sang the last chords to the air, cheeks only reddening slightly, head ducking minimally.

“ _And are you lonely looking for yourself out there?_ ”

He closed his mouth after, pressing his lips together as a futile effort to restrain the proud smile I knew wanted to burst out as he looked at me sheepishly. I felt an ache in my gut as I gazed at him. I wanted to know Jonathan. I wanted to know how old he was, his favourite colour, his birthday, his favourite song and why music meant so much to him and his family. Who had taught him to sing? Why was he singing so near to his apocalypse, so near to the deaths falling around him? How could he be smiling when someone could come across and slit both our throats? There was no one for him here that deserved that smile.

“My mother loves that song,” Jonathan said to me. “She used to sing it to me when I was sick.” I nodded and licked my lips nervously. My prediction had come true and they had chafed, so I pressed them together and began nibbling on the inside of my cheek instead. There was a pregnant pause, and then Jonathan laughed, leaning back on the heels of his palms. I marvelled at his ability to laugh. How full of hope and love and laughter he was. Maybe he was just a great actor. He opened his mouth and I knew he was going to ask me to be his ally, and I panicked.

“Why that song?” I blurted out. He stopped mid syllable of the first word and looked taken aback, blinking at my interruption. I kept my eyes fixed on a point just above his right shoulder, staring at nothing while nibbling incessantly at the inside of my cheek.

“Why what?” He breathed in a small amount of laughter, snorting at the obscurity of my question.

“Why that song?” I prompted, still avoiding his eyes by sweeping my gaze across the arches of his cheekbones. “It sounded like it was about space or something. Why would she sing that to you if you were sick?”

“Oh,” He smiled, tilting his head a little to the side to consider the answer. “I guess because it’s, you know, it’s not actually about _space_. It’s about a girl who goes out into the world and finds all the things she’s been looking for and more.” I nodded, though I didn’t completely understand. “Mamma used to sing it to me because I used to always chatter about going out and finding bigger and better things out there, and that song would make me feel better. Ah,” He looked down to his lap from where he’d been trying to catch my eye, and scratched the back of his head. “I guess I used to dream big.”

“At least you planned ahead,” I said helpfully, trying to ease his embarrassment, my heart warming.

“Right,” He agreed, and looked up. This time our eyes met and I contemplated the idea of a younger Jonathan, probably malnourished, definitely skinny with ribs showing, all elbows and knees, curled up with my imagined Mrs Everdeen as she crooned away to him, trying to get him to dream of better places. That his life began but didn’t have to end in District Twelve, where I'd heard the coal was so ingrained into the workers that their fingertips were never clean but always remained a stained shade of grey, and that they had coaldust so deep under their fingernails they never got clean.

And I guess Jonathan did get out to see a different portion of the world; he got to experience the Capitol and its splendour and got to meet new people who weren’t dusty-skinned miners. I wondered if Mrs Everdeen was watching now and remembering a scrawny little Jonathan with fever-flushed cheeks and a tickling cough cuddling up to her and imploring with big grey eyes for her to sing to him because he was sick.

 “So do I really have to ask you, man?” He startled me out of my thoughts, and there was now a mischievous, cocky grin on his face. I knew what he was talking about, but I was in no rush for this conversation to move at a faster pace, so I let my head tilt to the side but offered no other incentive for him. “I mean, I searched long enough for you, you’re the one who should be asking me.

“Fine, you princess,” He rolled his eyes after I didn’t say anything, but I scoffed at the nickname. He chuckled at my apparent hurt from his insult and continued. “Allies?” he held out a hand sarcastically, meaning for me to take it and be done, but I couldn’t. I just stared at his palm, and then, after a painful wait, I dragged my eyes back to his. He wasn’t confident or happy any more, but confused, and his eyebrows were creased in hurt and surprise. I swallowed and fidgeted. His eyes were almost opalescent now, and under the inky blots of his eyelashes they were perplexed and cheerless, as though I had sucked all the happiness out of him and I hadn’t even said a word.

“I can’t,” I answered his look hoarsely, breaking the silence, and I couldn’t look him in the eyes any longer so my gaze moved to stare at his broad, powerful hand still hovering in the air. I traced its movements as it dropped back to land on his thigh, and then steeled myself. I had known him a week. I didn’t owe him any explanation.

And then I looked into his face and ate my words.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” I gestured to where I was sitting, indicating to my panic attack. “What’s to stop that happening again? That was because I was paranoid on my own. Imagine how worse I'd be with _you_ around? I wouldn’t be able to concentrate!” I took a wild breath in to see Jonathan’s jaw clicking and his hands clenched in the folds of his coat. His eyebrows sank lower at my words, but I continued, trying to justify the rejection brimming in his clear eyes. “I would be a horrible ally, anyway. You don’t need me; you need someone who can watch your back. I mean, I didn’t even see you till you fricken’ appeared out of thin air after I had come down from my attack, and I don’t even know why you didn’t kill me, as pathetic as I am-” I clutched at my hair in a way to tell myself to shut up. I let my eyes covey my message, pleading at him to just _go_ , not because I didn’t need him but because he didn’t need me, and I didn’t want to get him killed. We were much more noticeable as a pair.

“Alright,” He stood up stiffly, and I watched him, feeling stricken, as he adjusted his coat and buttoned it up. “I get it,” But he didn’t, he really didn’t. The air felt colder though I knew that was impossible, and I suddenly felt the need to do something for him. He couldn’t just leave.

“Here,” I scrambled around and rifled through my bag, getting a can of preserved food and a packet of dried fruit out and shoving them into his hands. He grappled with the unexpected gifts, our fingers getting tangled, until he wrenched away from me and turned, facing his back to me. I pulled on my hair, and then, in a flash-decision, I got out my knife. My good one. “This too,” I said quietly, holding the blade so he could grasp the hilt when he turned back to me.

When he did lift the dagger from my injured hand, I almost expected to be killed right then. But the anger was gone from his eyes as he stared at the silver blade and said uncertainly, “Isaac, I can’t take this,”

“Pfft,” I attempted to laugh, to joke, but my eyes were too wide and my voice was too high. “You saw me at the knife section of Training. What a loser, right?”

He surprised me by smiling softly, but I still knew he was going to be lonely. “Right,” He agreed, and then he was unbuckling his coat again, some of the pockets of which were bulging from where he had stuffed in the food. It was my turn to be confused until I saw him put his hands on his waist and start unthreading the whip that was coiled through his belt loops. “Happy birthday,” he joked quietly, and I couldn’t help the wry smile pull at the corners of my mouth.

“Thanks, but my birthday’s in April,” I answered, and he narrowed his eyes playfully back.

“Well, take it as a belated gift,” He answered back. After a beat, he looked to his feet, still holding out the whip. “Are you sure?” His voice was small, and I knew he’d still take me if I changed my mind. But I couldn’t handle the co-dependency of an alliance, no matter how close I was to him. It wouldn’t be this hard saying no to anyone but Jonathan, but I had to, or I'd go crazy with paranoia and kill him in his sleep or something, and I wasn’t in that deep yet. I felt the weight of my answer as plainly as I felt the weight of the whip as I also put my hands on it. He didn’t let go, though, and I felt the warmth of his hand radiating heat on to mine.

“I'm sorry,” Was all I could say, and he passed on the whip to me fully, hand dropping to his side. He sighed and did up his coat, pulling the sleeves over his hands completely after he was finished. “I guess,” I started, and _I’ll see you_ was right on the edge of my tongue, but it would have been idiotic to say those words. “It’s goodbye then,” I finished awkwardly, stumbling over the words, and he raised his head to look me in the eyes.

“I killed the girl from District Five,” He told me in a low voice, and then I saw his eyes flitting between my own, like he was trying to see the disgust in them, the bone-deep stirring that should have been there, the want to get as far away from this murderer as possible.

But we all had our demons, and I shifted my weight off of my right foot, remembering the feel of it as it slammed into District Four boy’s back. Timmy. I even knew his name. I sympathised with Jonathan, and I saw the disbelieving happiness in him when I didn’t turn and run.

“I got the boy from Four,” I admitted in return, and it felt like it should have seemed odd that his shoulders sagged in relief, but it wasn’t.

His hand was on my shoulder, and I thought he was going to feel my heartbeat again, ground himself in the fact that this was happening but we were both still here. I was half right, but I'd be lying if I said I didn’t flinch away when his palm slid towards my neck and two of his fingers landed just below my jaw. “Shh,” he soothed me and replaced his fingers after I had jerked out of his grip. I didn’t understand what was happening until I felt, miraculously, my pulse thrumming away under the pads of his pointer and middle finger. My eyes widened and he smiled at me. “Anatomy, huh,” He joked and then he was stepping away from me and looking at the ground, mouth forming a line. I took this as a final cue to leave, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just backed off and left him alone in the street, walking away with my whip and my backpack and just myself.

_And are you lonely looking for yourself out there?_

I would have loved some company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~More gay!! Wooooo!~~  
>  The song Jonathan sings this time is _Drops of Jupiter_ by Train (aka my favourite song ever).


	13. The Curtains Deserved It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My death didn’t have sense of finality, as I'd always imagined it to have. I'd always thought the perpetrator would talk to me or smile or hesitate before delivering the final blow, whether to fight off their conscience or to revel in the moment. But here, the mutt did not know anything but death. One moment I was simply gazing into the deep, murky black that was the cat’s vertical pupil and the next I was gone.

There were no more deaths that day, and that night I saw the faces of Katti Meow-Meow from District One, Timmy from Four and Gerrard Powers from Nine, who had been one of my rivals for cutest Tribute, in the sky. Gerrard looked to be fourteen, with blond curly hair, bowed lips and dark eyes. I thought he looked much cuter than I did, but who was I to know?

I was squatting in a cottage-type home right on the outskirts of the city, having doubled-back after my morning with Jonathan. I had reached the house just when the sun was kissing the horizon after a long day of walking winding streets and garbage-filled alleys for hours, practicing the motions for my whip but not having the guts to crack it since someone may have heard me.

The whip was rather excellent.  It had tassels at the tip which I knew from experience could crack through skin, and was just the right length for me to adjust to. It was proper leather and the grip I was holding had treads and dimples in it to make it easier to keep a hold of. I couldn’t have found a better whip, and to make it greater, on top of it all, Jonathan had given it to me.

I fell asleep curled behind the ratty sofa in the late hours of the night, blanketed tightly in my greatcoat with my head pillowed on my backpack. The couch was only about one and a half metres away from the wall and I could squeeze in comfortably with the vantage of being invisible to anyone who didn’t directly poke their heads over the top of the couch. I had eaten a few more handfuls of gross, stale breadcrumbs and finished the dreadful packet of dried apples before taking a short drink from my bottle, and then curling up in a ball with my back pressed against the wall, whip clutched tightly in my right hand.

I dreamt of Jonathan finding me and smiling and laughing before he started cutting just tiny, small incisions all over my body, all the while singing. I couldn’t fight back, feeling like my wrists, ankles and neck were locked onto the floor, and he asked me if I had sailed across the sun as blood started weeping from the thousand wounds on my body, and I cried out when he dug a little deeper as he slid the knife I had given him into my cheek. Tears were streaming down my face, the salt in them stinging the shallow cuts across my temples, and he asked me if I made it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven was overrated. I begged him to stop as the burning, painful feeling was all over me and my vision was beginning to blur ever-so-slightly around the edges, but he just smiled down at my sobbing and brushed the hair off my already bloody forehead to add another score to my skin. After I thought there was no where left to cut he smiled softly again, and traced his fingers over my lips, brushing them softly, tracing them with his thumb before cupping my jaw in his powerful, rough hand to keep it still as I tried to twist away, and then placing the tip of the cold sharp steel on the corner of my mouth and telling me sweetly that he's about to hack both of my lips off, and digging the tip of his dagger in.

I woke in cold sweat, coiled tightly around myself, pressed against the wall. Yawning, I banished the dream from my mind and sighed, sitting up slowly. Something popped in my knee when I stretched out my leg, and I rolled my shoulders a few times before peeking up over the top of the couch, cracking my neck from side to side as I did so. No one was there, so I spent the next few hours puttering around the house, examining cupboards and drawers carefully and avoiding anything that could be even remotely dangerous. _It seems like the nicer the house, the more dangerous it is_ , Timmy from District Four had said, and I was cautious down to where I placed my feet. This house was nicer and cleaner than the one I had killed Timmy in, so I was moving on my toes, feeling like I was walking on eggshells.

The water in the bright, open kitchen was clear when I turned on the tap, but I pressed my lips together and didn’t refill my bottle as I also remembered Estelle saying something about acid water before. The bed I avoided completely, arcing around it in a wide circle as I checked the bedside cabinets, which had nothing of practical use to me in them. The wardrobe had some outlandish clothes in it that felt crappy quality to my touch, though I did steal a thin scarf down off the shelf and stuffed it into my backpack just in case.  The cottage had two floors, and upstairs I found another bedroom which, other than having a window seat and an attachable mirror that I stole to put downstairs somewhere, was pointless. There was an ensuite to the upstairs bedroom which had way too many possibilities of traps so I took one look and didn’t even enter.

In the cupboard under the stairs I found the house’s pantry, which seemed to be chock-full of ready-to-eat perishable foods such as breads and fruits and delicacies. I also found packets of flour, sugar, salt, food dye and sauces, but I took nothing, only touching things to move them out of the way in my search. This was too easy, and when I inspected the floor I saw a dead mouse, which was point enough to me that the food was poisoned. I mean, sure, the mouse could have died of natural causes but I wanted to be safe rather than sorry.

I found nothing useful in the whole house; no weapons, or food I was game to eat or water I was game to drink. This day had been quiet, and by sun down I felt I had learnt the ropes of the cottage and knew what to avoid and what I could touch. I had balanced the mirror on the corner of the wall between the living room and kitchen to reflect the back door to the house so I could see if anyone entered, though I avoided looking at my own reflection as much as I could so I wouldn’t have to see the miniscule specks of blood dotting my face _still_ that, no matter how much I scratched, would not come off, and whatever weight I had gained in my week at the Capitol floating off as the curve of my cheek became more and more haggard. No faces lit up the sky that evening, and I spent another night curled up behind the couch, wrapped in my coat and my new scarf as the temperature dropped substantially enough to make my teeth chatter after eating a small meal of half a tin of tomatoes (yuck) that left my stomach crying for more.

In this dream, the Raintree Twins were pulling on both my hands, tugging me towards the city centre. They both looked terrified as they cried for me to run faster, faster, keep moving or I would die and they would die with me. I started running, stumbling because they were faster than me and pulling on my arms too much. I was confused and I didn’t know what was going on, but the Twins seemed terrified enough for me to move faster and I hauled my arms from their grip and ran on my own.

Together our feet flew across the bitumen as their terror caught on to my own and my heart felt heavy and too big, weighed down with dread, fear seeping into my veins and making my blood run cold. The sky above us was dark, but the apartment buildings alongside the road we were running on all had their windows lit up, and I felt like the windows were the million eyes of the people watching us on the television.

When we finally reached the centre, I had to double-over to catch my breath, leaning on to the cold, ornate surface of the Cornucopia. My heart was thundering so much I was surprised it didn’t beat out of my chest and the blood was rushing in my ears so loudly I missed the Twins calling my name until Rhododendron physically grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

“Isaac! We have to climb!” His face was sweaty and dirty and he looked so young that my gut swooped in pity and angst. Rhododendron pointed to the Cornucopia where Honeysuckle was already grabbing hold of the carvings on the side and starting to ascend.

I nodded to him, still breathless, and we both started to climb. I still had no idea what we were running from but from the Twins faces I could tell it was close and brutal. The climb was hard because even without my shaking fingers and wobbly legs it was difficult to find perches and handholds, and I was still only halfway up when Honeysuckle screamed long and loud from where she was already perched atop the golden horn, jolting me out of my concentration. My foot slipped and I hit my knee painfully against the hard metal but I still managed to look up at her. She was pointing to the road we had just left and sobbing, her long hair whipping around her face in knots as she wailed and cowered. Rhododendron was there beside her, and I took a nanosecond to wonder how in hell he got up there so quickly. I dismissed the thought and stopped climbing to turn and look in the direction Honeysuckle had been pointing, and if I hadn’t been panting so hard I would have gasped and screamed myself.

It was essentially a giant, scabby-furred, grey-blue cat that was bigger than I was and had one huge, red eye set in the middle of its face. There was a giant, wet, pink nose on the end of its muzzle that was cut and bleeding, and its mouth was open to reveal a huge, lolling tongue that spread drool all over the ground and teeth as big as Honeysuckle and as sharp as a needle. The cat-thing was prowling forward on toes that had claws out and extended: curved like moons and filed to a point where they, impossibly, clawed through the cement road. Its fur was matted and knotted with scars and dried blood in places, and one of its ears was missing a half and still bleeding.

I whimpered and hung, frozen with terror, on the side of the Cornucopia like a bug. The thing noticed me straight off and bounded forward, and I had time to unfreeze and draw the sword from its scabbard at my waist clumsily with one hand before it was next to me and I felt its stinking, rotting breath ruffle my hair and cause my throat to tighten and threaten to dry-heave.

I tried not to breathe, but a plan formed in my mind to stab this thing in the eye. That’s what the hero in the story always did; attacked the eye of the Cyclopes beast and then escape or finish the job while it was occupied with the pain, maybe win over the love of their beloved at the end of the legend.

In one quick movement I brought up the sword, but before I could bring the point of the sword to the dark, abysmal, vertical pupil tracking my movements, the cat fricken’ _grinned_ , tongue sprawling from its mouth, and batted me off the side of the horn before I could do anything proactive.

I landed hard on my back, sword clattering out of my grip, head hitting the pavement hard, gasping like a fish out of water as the Twins howled and cried from the Cornucopia. I rolled on to my stomach, blood running from my mouth, and started crawling away, towards the closest apartment building. I was still winded and dizzy but my survival instincts kicked in enough to drag myself by my elbows off the road and on to the nature strip.

A blinding pain stabbed through the back of my calf and I cried out a burbling scream, splattering blood all over the pavement before me as it spat out of my mouth. Turning my head, I saw one half-moon claw piercing straight through my left calf, and I was paralysed by the pain. Drool from the mutt’s open mouth slopped onto my thighs from where it was leaning over to me and it was hot and wet and soaked straight through my clothes as if they were nothing and soon I felt the wetness seeping into my skin. I knew that if I moved my leg the pain would be blinding, but if I stayed where I was the minimalistic chance at maybe surviving would deplete to zero.

Sobbing, I wrenched my leg to the side in one quick movement and that was possibly the stupidest thing I had ever done. Muscle, sinew and skin all tore in a jagged, diagonal line straight from just right of my tibia all the way to the side where my leg was free but big whoop; I couldn’t move an inch after that. I screamed loudly and rolled over on to my back, clutching my mangled leg that was slippery with the blood that was pouring from my wound.

Being on my back was a bad idea as the blood in my mouth started to choke me but instead of rolling on to my side I just senselessly spat the blood over my face where it ran its course and then started to dried in a parody of a circle around my mouth. My hands were clutching my leg in the sense that they were protecting it from god knows what since they were causing more pain but I couldn’t stop; I kept scrabbling at the wound, my thigh pressed to my chest as I bent my leg to hold it.

The mutt- I had somehow, in the cloud of pain, forgotten about the mutt- hissed in pleasure, reminding me that there was, indeed, more in store for me. Opening my eyes I saw only a white haze clouding my vision which was result from the jolt on my head and the added trauma. I blinked rapidly to clear my eyesight of the fog and also tears to see the thing breathe in the scent of my blood and fear and proceed to drool more saliva over my stomach, where it landed heavily and slid off my waterproof shirt on to my coat underneath me.

My death didn’t have sense of finality, as I'd always imagined it to have, when I was feeling self-pitying and guileless in the long hours of the night. I'd always thought the perpetrator would talk to me or smile or hesitate before delivering the final blow, whether to fight off their conscience or to revel in the moment, I'd never discerned one from the other. I was dying either way. But here, the mutt did not know anything but death: it did not hiss in satisfaction before biting my head off nor did it gaze for seconds as long as lifetimes at my broken and bleeding body to drink in the glory before it sank its claws into my ribcage. One moment I was simply gazing into the deep, murky black that was the cat’s vertical pupil and the next I was screaming and hollering and feeling the claws tearing through my chest and breaking ribs and mangling guts and then I was gone.

 ----

I had just enough time after waking to run to the kitchen before I was vomiting up whatever was left in my stomach from the previous day. It was lucky for the other Tributes that no one was in the house or waiting for me to emerge or I would have vomited on them and made them smell of sick and stomach acid for the remainder of the Games, so the odds were in their favour today.

An hour later I determined that the vomiting had at least done one good thing: it made me not hungry until well past noon. Which, coincidentally, made me incredibly paranoid. I had already had a day of relative peace- why was nothing happening? Sure, it was still morning, but certainly something should be going down soon, since it should have already. My dream (which I remembered in high definition, hooray) was not helping- every noise I heard, whether it was a creaking floorboard or a leaf rustling, was something coming to kill me without a thought otherwise. I had never thought about how scary muttations were until I had woken up that morning- how terrifying it was to face something that wouldn’t even hesitate to kill you, wouldn’t even consider the choice of letting you live. At least with humans you could appeal to the spark of humanity in them, but with monsters, they didn’t even speak your language, let alone think about choice.

I wondered what the Twins were up to. I hadn’t really thought about the Raintree Twins since the Games had started, and I felt guilty. They were good kids, both of them. So full of love for one another that I didn’t know how they could even pull a smile since the moment they were both selected for this event. That kind of dedication to another person, where your world revolves around them and you feel when they do, smile when they do, even move like they do; it’s gorgeous. That kind of love could sustain a person; keep them whole until they die. Because they are, essentially, one half of a whole, not really living when the other is not around. They can only be complete when they are together.

Which is why the equation of the Raintree Twins plus the Hunger Games equals nothing but sorrow and heartache.

After what I deemed was midday, I huddled on the floor beside the arm of the couch, eyes flickering between the mirror showing the back door and the hall and the remainder of the house I could see. I was hell-bent on the idea that something was coming for me today since yesterday had been what I know Capitolites would have deemed ‘quiet’, and I unconsciously kept running my hands over my left calf as if trying to convince myself that it _was_ actually a dream. I mean, I didn’t even have a sword any more, but I was still trying to persuade myself this wasn’t an afterlife that was some cruel trickster god’s idea of a joke.

I finished off the bread while I sat there, and when I took another sip of water I shook the canteen, noting the level of liquid sloshing around in there was drastically low. It might last me another day and a half at most, but I didn’t like my chances.

The day dragged on incredibly slowly, and I finished off my half-can of tomatoes with a disgusted face, and then I had nothing better to do so I curled up behind the couch and stared at the wall. There were no faces in the sky, again, and I was trembling with anticipation as I lay on my side and hugged my knees to my chest, willing myself to calm down enough to fall asleep. My whip was clutched in my hand and I felt like I stared at the wall for an hour before I finally felt tired enough to shut my eyes and sleep, not knowing what would happen in the dream or when I woke up.

I slipped unconscious to the vow that next time I saw a stray cat, I would kill it, no questions asked.

 ----

Something growled. I opened my eyes, to stare at the back of the couch in terror. What was it? I held my breath, trying to recount what the noise had sounded like. It was sort of a gurgle, maybe a little rumble, coming from very near me. I lay on my side, frozen in terror, as I waited for the thing to announce itself again.

And it did, by the way of my stomach growling in hunger a second time. I sighed at my own stupidity and hoped that the Capitol didn’t notice my minor panic attack at my fearsome stomach. I sat up and decided I couldn’t ignore the protests, so I opened my precious last can of some kind of tinned meat. It looked gross, but I scooped some out with two fingers, sniffing it (bad idea), before putting them into my mouth, a gobbet of greasy meat on the end.

It wasn’t half bad, if you didn’t have taste buds and no sense of smell.

I finished a third of the can before stowing it regretfully away in my pack (because no matter how disgusting it was, food was food) along with my scarf and slipping that on my back. Kneeling, I stretched and rolled out from behind the couch. I took a deep breath in and stood, popping both my knees and gazing around the room. I never realised how much I hated floral-patterned curtains until the Hunger Games, and I narrowed my eyes at the offending pieces of cloth hanging directly opposite me.

With a cheery crackle, the thin curtains I had been cursing burst into flames, causing me to leap backwards against the wall and bang my elbow against its hard surface. Smoke rose in swirling patterns from the material as the apparently flammable wall the window had been set in followed suit of the curtains and began to smoulder.

I don’t know how long I moronically stood against the wall watching the front wall of the house deteriorate from a shade of olive green to flickering orange and yellow, but when I started breathing in more smoke than air I figured  I should get out of there. Running out into the hall, I saw the front door, was behind a wall of fire. There goes plan A, and I should really just not make a plan A from now on. They always seem to fail.

Gripping my useless whip, I sprinted up the stairs as my last resort was the windows up there. I stumbled into the upstairs bedroom, coughing harshly and gagging on my scorching throat, and pushed the windows open. They swung outward without a sound, and I followed their direction. I leapt out of the cottage onto the shingled roof, slipping on the mossy tiles and falling heavily on to my hip. Grumbling, I stood up again and, walking as fast as I could manage on an awkward angle on the slanting roof, I hobbled of round the side of the house, coughing and looking for a way down.

My words from my Interview floated back to me. I had been brimful of confidence when I had yammered off to Emlyn that _there are always trees_ in the Hunger Games. Well, wise guy, where are they now?

There was no way down that I could see other than catapulting myself off the second story. Which would be stupid. And probably expected of me, but I really didn’t want broken legs so I needed another approach. Looking around on my level of ground, the first thing I noticed was the smoke now gushing out of the window I had so recently stumbled out of, meaning the fire was spreading unnaturally fast through the house. The second thing I saw was a tree. Way, _way_ on the other side of the next house over. It looked pretty flimsy too, but it was my best hope.

I slipped once more on the mossy overlay on the roof on my way over to the next house, picking myself up with a few choice swear words and praying to whatever was out there that I wouldn’t slip now. Because I had no time to decide on another option, and I was taking a running leap at the house over, sprinting towards the edge of the roof and feeling the tip of my right boot curl over the edge of the gutter and pushing off.

I miraculously sailed over the gap and I had the insane urge to flap my outspread arms like wings on a bird for effect. I knew I was about to make it until I reached about half way where my ascent reversed, and I started on the fall. My yell of euphoria turned into a drawn out curse word as I realised my landing wouldn’t be as smooth as I hoped. I did make it to the other side, but awkwardly, my left boot grazing the gutter before breaking through the flimsy metal and causing my left knee to clatter into the hard tiles that covered the roof, shin slamming into broken gutter my boot had wrecked just seconds before.

Scrambling for a purchase as my right leg thudded into the wall beneath the roof; I got hold of the edge of a tile and prayed I wasn’t strong enough to rip it off the surface of the roof. I managed to find another handhold for my other fingers and haul myself up, scrabbling with my right foot on the wall and feeling the broken metal bite further into the shin of my left leg just below the knee.

Taking a moment to breathe wasn’t an option as the burning house was starting to collapse. I had no idea how the fire had spread so fast or how the foundations were already burnt through, but I stumbled to my feet anyway and jogged to the tree. Clambering down its thin, bendy branches was easier than I thought, and soon enough I had reached the ground and crouched beside the wall of the untouched house, fingers down my throat, trying to vomit up the smoke and pollution from my lungs. Nothing came up, which, in hindsight, was a good thing because that meant I'd get to keep my meagre breakfast down, and soon enough I was running away from yet another thing trying to kill me.

I jogged into the city, getting as far away from the pillar of smoke as I could, knowing it would be a giant signal to those hunting other Tributes. But I had my whip, so I felt that I could take maybe one and a half Tributes if they attacked me.

The thought of half a Tribute had me in a fit of nervous giggles and I ducked down an alleyway to get off the main road. What half would it be? Bottom half, top half? Left half, right half? My giggles were insane, and I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to stifle the sound. At the end of the alleyway I ducked sharply around a corner back on to a broader road, still hiccupping with laughter when I heard a voice call joyfully “What’s so funny?”

I sputtered on my laughter and jumped backwards into a wall, knocking my head sharply on the vertical slab of cement and jamming my heel on the corner of the building and the sidewalk. A stream of gibberish fell from my mouth as I looked around for the source of the voice, looking left and right down the empty road. _Empty_ road.

I feared I had gone insane until the voice piped up, “Hey, buddy! Guess what’s up?” and I tilted my head skywards to follow the familiar sound to see Marhkuhs (with two h’s and a k) seemingly clinging to the wall out of sheer willpower seven storeys up in the air. “Me!” he answered his own question, laughing, and started, like, _scuttling_ down the wall, long legs finding purchase on the thinnest windowsills and cracks and fingers finding miniscule gaps to help him reach the ground in mere seconds.

I stood, mouth open and gaping, staring at him as he loomed over me. I never realised how tall he was until now, and I shrunk against the wall, completely overwhelmed, my whip hanging forgotten and useless by my side.

“Isaac,” he smiled down at me and I whimpered. “Isaac, man,” he repeated, not bothered at all by my cowering. He cupped the sides of my face in his huge hands and tapped my cheeks roughly with his palms. “Anyone in there, brother?” he laughed and hit me one last time until I shoved him off playfully, responding in kind at last. He, in answer, flicked my nose with his long fingers but took a step back, giving me breathing room.

I started laughing again. “You-” I was breathless as he chuckled with me. I glanced back up to the spot on the wall where he’d been clinging and I felt a smile break fully over my face. “You creeper!” I sniggered and that turned into full-blown laughter and I tilted my head back, mouth open, full body going into the sound ripping from my body. He joined me, his laugh rich and intoxicating, voice deep, and we couldn’t stop until after several minutes. I didn’t even know what was so funny, but I think my body was just releasing all the nerves and jitters into this one experience, and I felt so much better afterwards.

When we’d finally calmed down enough to wipe the tears of mirth from our eyes, I felt my smile waver as I started to _think_. I wish he’d never shown up, because, though I was happy he was alive as illogical as that feeling was, now he’d possibly want an alliance like Jonathan had and I couldn’t give him that. If I couldn’t bear the thought of being tied to Jonathan in any way, I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t going to hang around with tall, powerful Marhkuhs for any set amount of time.

Or so I thought.

“Lemme see!” Marhkuhs’s thick, impossibly long arms wound around my body and deftly stripped me of my backpack, and he squatted down, unperturbed and trusting, to look through it. I snorted and glanced left and right down the street, then down the alley I had just come up, before crouching beside him, snort turning into a cough that tickled my sore throat.

“You’re very.... carefree,” I noted, and he just rolled his dark blue eyes at me and pulled up one side of his mouth to give me a quick, brotherly smile before turning back to the contents of my pack.

“I trust you, dude,” He said simply, and I don’t know whether it was the fact that he had no tact from living on the streets all his life or that he just felt that he could be so heart-bearing, gut-wrenchingly honest with me, but I felt a surge of compassion towards this guy. “Plus, someone already stabbed me,” he added, taking a moment to push his coat out of the way and lifting up his tattered shirt to show me a healing wound in his side. It didn’t look too deep but I still hissed through gritted teeth and grimaced in sympathy.

In a need to share, I showed him my grotty, torn hand with the slice down it, the bandage for which was lost sometime between last night and my arrival here. The cut was throbbing subtly so I only noticed it when I focussed, and I mumbled pitifully “I got a cut,”

He laughed gruffly and looked up at my face. “Who got you?”

Embarrassed, I avoided his eyes. “Me. I cut myself on a sword,” I almost kicked him because he was laughing at me so much. “Shut up!” I tried to keep my mouth in a line but it was tugging at the corners and before long I was smiling again. “You jerk,” I tried to hide the laughter in my voice, but he just raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head before continuing to rifle through my bag.

“You got another cut there,” he gestured absently to my left leg, and when I investigated I saw my pants had ripped right through in a horizontal line along the stitching below my knee about two inches long, and I had a slash that was sluggishly bleeding down my shin. It must have come from where I’d hit the gutter on my little adventure before, the adrenaline masking the pain. Now that I saw it though the pain registered and I pouted at it.

“Ouchie,” I prodded the gash, fingers sticking in the tacky, half-dried blood, but decided it didn’t need to be bandaged, so I left it to fester as it willed. I mean, it was covered by my pants- that counted as a bandage, right? Marhkuhs just tsked at my sulking and zipped my bag up, handing it back to me. I saw he had on some black leather gloves and had a leather satchel attached to his belt, but I didn’t ask what was inside.

I waited for the question, but it never came. In the awkward silence that could have been filled with problems, Marhkuhs just swung his arms a little and bobbed on the balls of his feet, sucking in air through his clenched teeth. After another minute, he nodded and brought his hands together. “So,” He looked at me and I readied myself to refuse him. “We should probably get off this big street,”

It threw me, but only for a second. “Alright...” I drew out the ‘i’ in my answer and we both waited another uncomfortable moment before I set off down the road, hoping it was leading me back out to the suburbs. He followed a little behind me, loping stride easily worth two of my smaller steps, and I felt my chest tighten with tension. I gave him a long sidelong glance but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Well, this was awkward.

“Listen, Marhkuhs,” I started, but he held up and hand and shushed me.

“Listen,” He mimicked, and I almost wanted to stick my tongue out at him. “I know what you’re going to say,” He nodded and patted my head with his previously outstretched hand, only smirking slightly at his own fantastic joke of mimicry. Hero of his own lunchbox, he was. My face crumpled in impossible, relieved disbelief at the notion that maybe he understood the situation. “And yes, I will be your ally,”

I must have made a stricken facial expression because he snorted and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, buddy,” I frowned and curled my lips in, confused beyond all hell. “But seriously, let’s get off this street.”


	14. A Very Manly Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You coming, Isaac?”
> 
> “Why?” I asked back, and he shrugged. “You could just be bringing me down there to kill me,” I continued.
> 
> I could hear his laughter as loud as if he was standing next to me. Noisy bastard. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have already, kiddo,” This time he gestured for me to come. “I have water, if that’s any incentive,”
> 
> Grumbling at being called ‘kiddo’ I stomped down to his side and made a grand, sweeping gesture for him to go on. He patted my head fondly, hand bouncing off the curls, before dodging my swipe and striding off into the dim light.

We walked down the road for another few minutes, and I allowed Marhkuhs to take the lead because this way I could be sure he wasn’t about to attack me for not watching him, and I could protect both our behinds. I had no idea what was going on and, honestly, I was feeling just a _little_ overwhelmed. I mean, this morning, I was in a _house fire_. And now I was just strolling along with Marhkuhs, who looked so at ease he should have been whistling, and I had no idea what I was doing.

We walked down the big road, passing plenty of alleyways and alternatives to get off the wide asphalt, but Marhkuhs looked like he had a place in mind so I doggedly trotted along behind him, worrying my lip with my teeth. This was a terrible habit, but I wasn’t giving it up any time soon.

My hip was sore where I had landed (twice- full of grace, I am) on the roof, and I was prodding the bruise I know must have been forming when we finally turned off the insanely long main road and onto an only slightly smaller street, which was lined with apartments that all looked the same and, behind the buildings on the left side of the road, I could see that there were some train tracks through the occasional gap that separated some complexes from others.

I huffed a breath and licked my lips, wondering where the heck we were headed. Another few minutes later we turned again, shuffling down the sidewalk like the pedestrians we were, and I was starting to feel a fluttering of panic in my belly. I rubbed my thumb over the cut on my palm and swallowed nervously, only to choke on the spit when my dry throat worked too hard to swallow it. I shook my canteen hesitantly and then drank a tentative sip, my sore throat working hard to swallow but other than that the water went down smoothly. I ached to take another gulp, to finish the bottle, but I forced my hand away from my mouth and put the canteen away, only coughing slightly.

Marhkuhs was watching me over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, dark blue eyes twinkling, and I flipped him off before zipping up my bag. He chuckled and turned back around to face the front again, and left me to stew in my own anger and frustration. Why was I even following him? I didn’t want an alliance- I should just turn around right now and go, find my own way, maybe head back out to the suburbs. Especially if this guy kept _laughing_ at me. Grinding my teeth, I was totally ready to turn around and head off when Marhkuhs darted off the sidewalk and down a thin gap between two neighbouring apartment buildings. I bounced on the balls of my feet, indecisive as to whether I should follow him until he turned around, halfway into the dimness, and called “You coming, Isaac?”

“Why?” I asked back, and he shrugged. I rolled my eyes and placed a hand on my hip, sass rolling off me in waves. “You could just be bringing me down there to kill me,”

I could hear his laughter as loud as if he was standing next to me. Noisy bastard. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have already, kiddo,” This time he gestured for me to come. “I have water, if that’s any incentive,”

Grumbling at being called ‘kiddo’ I stomped down to his side and made a grand, sweeping gesture for him to go on. He patted my head fondly, hand bouncing off the curls, before dodging my swipe and striding off into the dim light.

The little path led behind the apartments and under a small cement bridge which held the train tracks I'd seen earlier, and then opened up to what looked like a park. The park looked incredibly out of place, just a bunch of green grass criss-crossed with white, chalky gravel paths dumped in the middle of the grey city. Marhkuhs jogged across the open space till he reached the tall, water-damaged concrete wall of one of the apartments that backed on to the park. I followed suit, and soon we were edging around the side and Marhkuhs had his sights set, apparently, on the thickly-framed door (which had the frosted glass panel shattered from where Marhkuhs had broken in) set subtly on the side.

I grimaced apprehensively at the door but Marhkuhs just rolled his eyes. “I swear to God or whatever that it’s just me in there... and maybe the boy from Nine,” He ducked his head around the frame and peered into the dusty darkness, but ultimately perceived that he couldn’t see far into the dim room and turned back to shrug his shoulders at me.

I frowned. “Isn’t he dead?” I tilted my head to the side, trying to see the answer to my confoundedness from this new angle. “I’m ninety-eight per cent sure he’s dead,” The boy from Nine. That was... or had been, I guess, Gerrad Powers, with the blond curls and rosy mouth that had most of the Capitol fawning over him with his big, dark eyes and habit of biting his thumb.

Hey, I’m not a stalker. I watched his evaluation.

The most important fact I remember about Gerrad Powers, though, was that his face shone meekly in the sky a few days ago, which, when that happens to a person, _generally_ meant that they were dead. But only generally, apparently.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, nodding and assuring myself. “He’s dead.”

Marhkuhs gave me a sneaky look and raised an eyebrow, mischief but also a glimmer of something unidentifiable in his face. “Are you sure?”

I sucked in a breath and felt shock ripple through me before I buried it. No, this couldn’t be happening. I _swore_ I saw his face in the tally for the dead. Oh god, what was happening? My eyes widened. Why were people still alive when it had been _said_ that they were dead and gone? I didn’t understand, and I was on the beginning of panic, hands clenching into fists and teeth landing on my haggard lip when Marhkuhs burst out into laughter. Laughter that was very, very loud.

He slapped my shoulder in good jest on the way down to putting his hands on his knees to brace himself because he was laughing so hard. “You’re... face!” he wheezed, and I jerked disgustedly out from under his grasp. His laughter continued to peal and ricochet off the walls of the apartment complex, and I felt my face going red with embarrassment.

“You... you jerk!” I snarled, feeling ashamed that I had fallen for such a stupid prank. I was sure that my cheeks were glowing as bright as neon signs, but my insult just made him laugh even harder, knees shaking with the effort of keeping him upright. I lifted a foot and shoved him hard on the hip with my boot so he fell through the doorway and onto the dusty cement floor, landing heavily on his side. All of a sudden his laughter changed into a sharp yell of pain and he curled in on himself on the ground, hands flying to- as I only remembered then- the stab wound on his side. Ah, crap.

“You _moron_!” Marhkuhs’ demeanour changed as soon as he could spit words out. I crouched at his side, hands fluttering for some way to comfort him.

I felt so horrid. What had I done? He had just been joking, but then I had to- “Marhkuhs? Bro, brother, are you okay? C’mon man, I’m sorry-” There was stream of comforts and just random words pouring out of my mouth as I raked my eyes up and down his injured body.

“Help me up,” He snapped, cutting off my tirade of uselessness. I stood and he reached one hand up, the other still curled around his wound. I clasped it in both my own and pulled him to his feet, where he stumbled for a moment before he centred himself and glared at me from beneath his lashes. I sheepishly ducked my head.

“Are you-” I started, but didn’t get any further before his fist flew out and connected with my jaw, snapping my head to the side and causing me to follow the momentum and lift off my feet to land in a heap on the floor. I had bitten my tongue hard during takeoff and, as I lifted my torso off the floor on shaky arms, I felt the blood flow thickly into my mouth, tasting iron and trying not to gag on the syrupy, heavy warmth. The heels of my hands scraped against the rough cement and I cracked my neck from side to side before opening my eyes and glaring up at him from my place on the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood accurately to the side. My forehead had also scraped on the floor when I landed and was stinging, and my jaw hurt like a bitch.

I had never, _ever_ felt manlier. My masculinity points were finally going back up; I had never been more certain of anything in my _life_.

I grinned and a trickle of blood ran down my chin. I spat another mouthful out and wiped my sleeve over my face, smearing the blood around my mouth. Marhkuhs’ glower wavered and then he was cracking a smile too, and offering a hand to help me to my feet. I took it and stood awkwardly, both feeling the results of our actions.

“Sorry,” he chortled good-naturedly, turning my chin gingerly with his paw of a hand, inspecting the damage. His fingers were covered with soft leather, but the stitching tickled my skin. He was still holding his stomach gingerly, bent slightly to the side as if to minimise the area of pain, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t really do anything to heal or lessen his hurting, so I grimaced in sympathy and let it slide.

“I’m sorry too,” I said, and he nodded and smiled in reassurance that he wasn’t still mad. “Like, really, Marhkuhs, I forgot you were injured and-”

He patted me on the head (again) to shut me up. “It’s _okay_ , little man,” he laughed and yanked his hand out of the way of my half-hearted swipe to get him to stop patting my head. “Stop being butthurt. I'm fine.”

I sputtered at that. “Butthurt?” I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded... strange, to say the least. Butthurt. My butt wasn’t hurt, but I'm guessing that wasn’t what he meant.  When I looked at his freckled face, my eyes met a grin as big as the sun.

“Yup.” He turned away and finally ambled off further into the building. “Butthurt.” Bloody language difference between Districts. Stupid District Eight and they're stupid lingo.

I followed him, incredulous, and completely forgetting the fact that anyone else might have been in here. Marhkuhs wove his way through the apartment, which was very dusty and had our footsteps bringing up clouds of dirt and dust mites wherever we placed our feet. The windows were boarded up, bars of golden sunlight squeezing through to show us the clouds of lint swirling through the air, and this was our only source of light. This, coupled with the daze I was in, was probably why I missed the other three sets of footprints, two being Marhkuhs’ (one coming in and another coming out) and the other being a set of slightly (very) smaller feet.

I was led through one last door, and I presumed we were in the front room of the apartment, where there were windows lining the far wall, either side of a door that I could only believe led outside. There was another door to the right, but no furniture in the room. Indeed, there were no objects except for what I thought was a barrel of water and... well, I guess it wasn’t an object, was it?

Gerrad Powers’ body was lying to the side of the room, and only now did I see the footprints leading into the room before mine, the small shapes leading to the centre of the room where they led into a great scuffle, by the looks of the carvings on the dusty floor. Then there were drag marks leading to where his body was now slumped against the wall, half-lying against the wall, face pillowed on his bicep, dried blood crusting from his nose down his face, a purpling bruise covering his temple with matching shadows under his eyes.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at the body, dumbstruck. Now, usually in the Hunger Games, bodies were taken from the arena after the death scene was cleared by other Tributes. Taken up by a hovercraft and deposited back in the Capitol to be dressed and cleaned up and carted back home to grieving family and friends in a plain wooden box. But Gerrad Powers had died, by my estimation (which meant if I remembered correctly), two days ago. Which meant his body had been hanging around here for two days, collecting dust and god knows what else.

“What?” Was my genius demur, not even a full sentence or a word appropriate to the situation I wanted him to explain, finger lifting to point at the body in hope of clearing up what my mouth couldn’t explain right now. Marhkuhs, to his credit, looked sheepish, hand rubbing over the back of his neck and not meeting my wide eyes. I really shouldn’t have been this surprised though: I was in the Hunger Games. I should take these things in my stride.

At least his brain was still connected to his body, unlike mine. “I don’t know what his plan was,” Marhkuhs started, scuffing his shoe on the floor and causing dust to billow up in a cloud. “I broke in here sometime on the second day, I can’t remember when exactly, and he followed me. He didn’t have any weapons, I don’t know what he was planning to do, he was so _small_ -” he caught himself, and then finally raised his eyes to mine. “We fought, he jumped on my back, I threw him off and, when he stood, I hit him with both fists on the back of the neck.” He linked his hands together, demonstrating his weapons of murder. “I don’t know if I meant to or not.” I nodded warily to show that I understood. “And his body has been here ever since.

“I left after I killed him,” He swallowed, throat working hard, and his hands separated and lowered to rest by his side, though both still clenched into fists. “I left for the rest of the day, wandered around the city, until I came back when the sun went down. And he was still here. I don’t know whether it’s because he’s indoors or if it counts for bodies outside too, but it doesn’t look like they're collecting them.”

Lazy-ass Gamemakers.

“So,” He coughed and tore his eyes away from the corpse. “Welcome to my crib,” He swept his arms out and plucked a smile from who knows where to put on his face. Crib? What the hell was a crib? Why was he bent on using colloquial language from his own District? Man, the last time I checked, a crib was another word for a cradle for a baby, but I’m guessing that’s not what he meant by it.

“Hey, you wanna chuck us your canteen? I’ll fill it up for you.” Marhkuhs called from where he was making his way towards the plastic container of water on the opposite side of the room to the body.

I quickly unscrewed the lid and downed the last mouthful of water before tossing it to him, watching him catch it easily. “Where’d you get all that anyway?” I asked, digging my hands into the pockets of my coat and walking slowly over to him.

“Stole it,” He crouched down to hold my bottle under the nozzle and start filling. The water was flowing at an annoyingly slow pace. “From those big Tributes. Then ones who teamed up.”

I felt my eyebrows slide up my face. “How’d you manage that?” I asked incredulously.

“They were all out hunting the first night,” He grunted and shifted his weight further back onto his heels. I felt sick at the word ‘hunting’. What a crude yet accurate analogy. “And didn’t leave any scouts out near the Cornucopia. So I snuck in once they’d all gone off and rolled this out.”

How he managed that without being seen, I had no idea at all.

“Is this all you got?” I looked around for more spoils of war, excited by the potential. My stomach yowled in anticipation but I couldn’t spot anything.

He coughed. “Yeah. I mean, I have some food that I’ll split with you later, but this is the big prize,”

“Right.” I bobbed my head in a nod, and he finally rolled back onto his heels and passed me my water bottle, filled up to the top. I took a tentative swig and then pushed it back into my bag, savouring the water in my mouth, swishing it around before swallowing it. It tasted sweet and cool at first but it collected the remnants of the blood in my mouth and ended up tasting metallic and gross, but I couldn’t afford to spit it out.

“And who are in the team-up? The big Tributes?” I was curious. I presumed it was the kids from Districts One, Two and Four, but on rare occasions, Tributes from other Districts had been known to join them.

“Both from One, though of course the chick is dead now,” Marhkuhs nodded, ticking them off his fingers, “Both from Two, both from Four, although-”

“Yeah, the boy is dead,” I said quickly. He cocked an eyebrow at me but let it slide.

“Yeah, so there’s only one from Four,” He continued, “And then the pair from Ten,”

“Right,” I consented. I could have predicted as much. Both the Tributes from Ten had been thickset and muscly, powerful hands that stroked the horses on Parade night with a strange gentleness. It would make sense for them to team up with the other Monster Tributes.

“There could be more,” Marhkuhs shrugged. “I wasn’t there for long.”

“Uh-huh,” I said dully. I really shouldn’t have brought up this subject.

“So,” Marhkuhs settled in a heap on the floor, stretching his back and rolling a shoulder. He lent back on his hands and smiled lazily up at me. It was almost unnatural, how at ease he was. “Ganked anyone yet?”

“Gank?” I asked, my voice lilting up at the end of the word to let him know that it’s a question. The word sounded like it meant something you found in a dirty sink or in the sewer or something.

“Yeah,” His dark eyebrows rose in a ‘ _you know’_ way. “Gank. Smoke. Ice.” He _tsk_ ed at my blank expression. “ _Kill_ ,” He elaborated finally, shaking his head at me in exasperation.

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. He didn’t encourage me to answer but didn’t change the subject either, just sat there on the floor and waited. “Yeah,” I squeaked, and then coughed, flexing my jaw and trying to smooth over my squeak from before. “Yeah,” I repeated. “Dude from Four.”

“What!” He crowed, sitting up off his hands and leaning forwards, crossing his legs under him and looking gleefully surprised. “You got one of _them_?”

I shrugged, trying to play it off. “Kicked him on to a mattress and-” I held my hands, palms facing up, in plain view in front of my body, pressing the heels together and then flicking them up so they met in the middle with a quiet but sharp _clap_. Marhkuhs made a face at my description but also gave me a thumb up from his left hand, scratching his nose with the heel of his right.

“Okay, man, I'm _starved_ ,” I said about a half hour later, my stomach basically clawing my insides with hunger. I think I had actual hunger pains. It was funny. Because we were in the Hunger Games. Hardy-har-har. Get it? “Can we _eat_ yet?”

Marhkuhs, who had been on his back on the dusty floor just staring at the ceiling, raised his head and looked at me exasperatedly with his dark blue eyes. I shrugged back but gave a pointed look. I was _hungry_.

“Ugh, okay,” he stood and stretched. “What’ve you got?”

I dragged my bag around so I could easily access the zip, leaving trenches in the dust. I pulled out the last two-thirds of a can of processed meat and held in on the flat of my hand triumphantly; presenting it to him with so much sarcasm I was surprised it wasn’t dripping out of my ears.

“Ta-da!” I chirped. “Two-thirds of a can of-” I squinted and tried to make out the writing, “I really hope that doesn’t say _blended liver_. I'm going to pretend I can’t read that.”

Marhkuhs laughed and shook his head. “And that’s all you’ve got?” He snorted and I giggled too.

“Yep,” I shook my backpack at him. “Want to check to see if I’m not lying?” he walked over to me and playfully snatched it, pretending to root around inside and evidently finding nothing. “Told you!” I sang and he poked his tongue out at me in reply. “Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one?” I teased.

“Who says?” He asked.

“Logic,” I said smugly, and he gave me a confused look. “You’re eighteen, I’m seventeen.” I elaborated, and he scoffed.

“So what? Let’s mix it up a little. Throw around some stereotypes. I want to do things differently.” He declared, raising the backpack like a toast. It was my turn to scoff, and I did so quite audibly. He ended up throwing the backpack at my face and I was lucky I caught it in time. His eyes sparkled with laughter as he turned away and went out the door to the right into an even darker room, coming back within half a minute with something packeted and something canned.

“Secret stash?” I asked dryly, wondering why he hadn’t pointed them out to me before.

“Just what I could nick from the Cornucopia,” He answered, passing me both the packet and the can. I was surprised.

“Both?” I asked, and he snorted.

“Go for your life. Do you know how much I could fit in these pockets?” I was already eating before he finished his sentence, scooping out my... ew, my _liver_ out of its tin with two fingers and sucking them softly in my mouth. He laughed at my enthusiasm, but I didn’t care. I was _starved_.

I only realised he wasn’t eating after I had finished my first tin. “ _’Chu eat?_ ” Was all I could manage with my full mouth, but he got the picture.

“I’ll eat later,” He shrugged and waved a hand at the frown that appeared on my face. “Seriously! Isaac, quit worrying. I’ve got a ton of food in there. I’ll eat _later_.”

I was too hungry to argue, so I just smoothed out my brow, swallowed, shrugged in a ‘ _it’s your funeral_ ’ way and ripped open the plastic package with my teeth. Inside were some raw noodles, hard and crispy, but that was no way in hell gonna stop me.

I burped once I'd finished it all, the remnants of all that I'd eaten scattered around me. I was in no way full, my stomach apparently being a bottomless pit these days, but I was much more satiated than I had been since I'd gone into the Games. Marhkuhs nodded approvingly since he had been seated in front of me the whole time, apparently ‘making sure I ate it all’. I don’t think he had any reason to worry.

Now down to the awkward part. It crept up on me again, occupying the back of my mind, an omniscient shadow that made everything unpleasant.

“Marhkuhs,” I sighed, setting aside that last tin.

“Sup, homie?” He asked, stretching a crick out of his neck while glancing up at me. I presumed ‘homie’ meant Isaac in this situation, so I just rolled with it.

“I- I can’t-” I started, looking down at my crossed legs in shame. I had just eaten, like, all of his food, stolen one litre of his water and been welcomed into his hideout. I tensed. Maybe after I broke this to him he would snap and kill me. I didn’t really believe that at all, but I had to be ready to run.

“I can’t be in an alliance with you,” I blurted to my feet, fingers skating to my whip coiled on my belt, ready for action. I looked up, expecting to see anger or sadness on his face but he just looked indifferent.

“Okay,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. I didn’t know how someone who had lived on the street their whole lives and had little-to-nothing to eat had such _massiveness_ to their body, but Marhkuhs was a giant, even with his malnourished childhood.

“Okay?” I asked incredulously, not really believing that he had heard me correctly.

“Yeah,” He said, totally placated and at ease. Damn him. “You can scamper off in the morning and all’ll be dandy,” At the mention of morning I glanced at the windows to see the dusky light shining through them. Jeez, had I really been here that long already? My eyes landed back onto Marhkuhs, who was now leaning back on one hand and inspecting the nails of his other.

“O...kay,” I parroted, still in disbelief, but I guess it would be nice to have a place to sleep tonight. He didn’t look like he'd kill me in my sleep, but if he did, at least I would be, y’know, _asleep_ and I would be sent off at the very able hands of an _acquaintance_ , right?

Scary thought, but not as scary as the fact that I was _okay with it_.

 ----

The Capitol theme blared out a short while later, and we didn’t even bother going outside to view it. We did cast our eyes skyward in a spur-of-the-moment gesture of respect. There had been no deaths today, so it was unnecessary for us to venture outside to see if any faces had appeared in the sky. When the sound stopped and the world became quiet again, we both remained in silence for another minute before going on as before.

After another hour or two I stopped the idle conversation and stood, picking up my bag and throwing it over to the wall where the water barrel was next to. I followed it over and did up my jacket and wound my scarf around my neck because it was freaking cold before sitting next to it, resting my back against the wall. Marhkuhs had taken about ten minutes during our redundant chattering time to go into the other room (barring me out, which I had agreed to only on the penalty of death, which I had think had been a joke but it had stopped my complaining) and eaten something and, using his words, “ _Taken a leak, you weirdo, why are you so intent on knowing?”_ when I asked why he was taking so long.

From this new angle I could see Gerrad Powers across the room, but I tried to block him out or fade him into the background. Marhkuhs, when I looked over at him after my short walk, was flopped on the ground, back to staring at the ceiling.

“So, do we need, like, a watch system or something?” I asked nervously. I didn’t know how alliances worked, to be honest, and that was probably one of the reasons I avoided them.

“Nah,” Marhkuhs reassured me. “I’m a light sleeper, and they can only get through there,” he rolled his head in the direction of the door in this room that led directly outside because he was too lazy to point with a finger. “If they break it down, and I’ll hear ‘em if they come through that way.” He rolled his head to the opposite side, indicating the door we had come through.

“Right then,” I told him. “I might hit the hay now.”

“Hit the cold, hard, incredibly dusty cement?” He answered to the ceiling, arms circling up from his sides to rest behind his head.

“I have a pillow, so I won’t suffocate,” I answered, silent hoping I wouldn’t suffocate from other causes tonight.

“Comfy,” He replied, not even casting a derogatory glance at my outrageously cozy backpack/pillow. Jealousy was a tragedy.

“You know it.”

“Hey,” Suddenly he was looking over at me, head pillowed on his bicep so he wasn’t directly inhaling dust. “Have you ever...” He sighed, shutting his eyes and looking, for the first time, embarrassed. “Like,” He _tsk_ ed at himself and seemed to steel himself before opening his eyes and just blurting out “Had a girlfriend?”

I was taken aback but snorted a laugh soon enough, to which he made a face at me, cheeks tinged with pink. “Not specifically a girlfriend, no,” I answered, thinking back on my experiences with a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, but I schooled my expression into a blank one to not rub it in Marhkuhs’ clearly inexperienced face.

He narrowed his eyes at me and I obviously didn’t hide the smile well enough. “Well, when you’ve lived on the streets all your life as I have...” He rolled his head back to the ceiling and gave a mournful sigh that was so put on that it had to be fake, coupled with a smile _he_ was forcing down, and I knew he was making fun of me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I rolled my eyes to show I had caught on and he grinned upwards.

“So,” I could hear the amusement in his voice and I knew I was in trouble. “If you hadn’t had _a girlfriend specifically,_ ” he threw my own words, albeit they were out of order, back at me, “Have you had a _boyfriend_?”

I sputtered on air while he cackled at the ceiling. “You wish, _jerk_!” I coughed, but didn’t explain myself any further. If I went on a tangent about my love life then it could very well lose me my cutest Tribute title. So I ducked my head and looked around, eyes wide, shy smile playing around my mouth as I bit my lip. It was never too late to try and win some sponsors.

Marhkuhs just shrugged from his place on the floor, still smiling hugely at the ceiling. “Just saying, buddy, you-”

“ _Enough_!” I called over to him, serving only to make him laugh harder. “ _Goodnight,_ Marhkuhs,” I settled against my backpack and the wall, closing my eyes and allowing the sleepiness wash over me. A mostly-full stomach really makes you tired.

“Nighty night, Isaac,” He chirped back in reply, gaze never leaving the ceiling. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

My last thought was _what the hell are bed bugs_?

\----

I stood atop one of the seven-storey apartment buildings, the wind whistling through my wavy hair, whip clutched tightly in one hand. I felt agile and ready and strong, like I could take on the world. My coat whisked around my thighs and I felt the aglets of my boot’s laces tapping the sides of my shoes as they blew around in the steady wind.

“ _Help!_ ” The cry somehow reached my ears and I was off, clambering down the side of the building I was perched atop of, using windowsills and pure luck to make it down. Once I had landed crouched like a cat on the asphalt, I heard the voice again, familiar, but this time a burbling scream. It was coming from my left, so I bolted off down the road, turning a sharp corner and stumbling upon a dreadful scene. And by dreadful I mean I couldn’t have hoped for better.

Jonathan, who was the one yelling, was on the ground, empty-handed and cowering from Timmy of District Four, who was advancing on him menacingly, sword in-hand. Gracewyn was beside Jonathan, silent but weaponless, too, and scuttling away from her advancing predator, Estelle, of District Two.

“Hey,” I called out, voice strong, pointing at the two bullies, who turned to face me, anger on their features. I uncoiled my whip and narrowed my eyes. “Step away,”

“Make me,” Timmy answered, lifting his sword, while Estelle simply snarled and hefted up the baton she was weaving. Gracewyn’s dark eyes widened in hope and Jonathan sighed in relief, wind rustling the dark hair that was flopped on his forehead, but it was cut off when Timmy waved the sword at him.

In a flash I snapped my wrist and flicked the end of the whip around the hilt of the sword, jerking it from Timmy’s hand. Surprise flitted across his face as the sword was torn out of his hand, but Estelle only made it a step towards me before I was cracking the whip again, this time across her cheek, causing a sharp cut to appear and blood to trickle down her face. It didn’t stop her, but she did cry out as she continued to barrel towards me. One more flick of my wrist and she, too, had been ridded of her weapon. The baton met the sword on the ground next to me, and with hard eyes I looked at the two offending Tributes.

“Had enough?” I asked dramatically, and raised the whip again in a menacing way.

Timmy and Estelle looked at each other and then turned tail and ran, bolting off in the other direction to me, and I glared after them until they disappeared around the next street corner. I then attended to my fallen friends, reaching down to help Gracewyn gracefully to her feet, and then doing the same to Jonathan. They both looked eternally grateful and stood close to me, gazing at me reverently, Gracewyn even kissing me on the cheek.

I just smiled coolly, put an arm around each of them and said, “Whipped,”

I was so cool.


	15. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One...” I heard Marhkuhs whisper, just loud enough for me to hear it, as we got ready to run.
> 
> “Two...” Came the second gravelly whisper, and I saw Marhkuhs’ hand skid up the frame of the door ready to tear it open. Marhkuhs knew what he was doing. He had quelled his fear. He wasn’t scared.
> 
> And neither was I.
> 
> “Three!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, just a warning, this is where it gets gory and violent. Have fun.

“Isaac!” My eyelids fluttered and I smiled, taking a deep breath in, still warm and fuzzy from my dream. “Isaac! C’mon, dude, wake up! We have to _go!_ ” The deep voice whispered again, right at my ear, and I screwed up my eyes and rolled away from it, snuggling deeper into whatever incredibly uncomfortable pillow I had insanely chosen the night before and muttering sleepy mumbles. “That’s right, brother, come on,” The voice prompted softly, and I felt a hand gingerly pat my back that was now bared since I had rolled over, rubbing small circles softly like they didn’t touch people often and didn’t know the custom. “Almost awake, buddy, you can do it, up and at ‘em,” The voice, gentler now, murmuring to me, and I finally stretched out from under the hand and took a deep breath in, almost to immediately inhale a crapton of dust, coughing and choking. My eyes shot open to see the wall and I sat up, almost clocking Marhkuhs in the chin with my head from where he had been crouched over me.

I felt a pinching in my cheek from where I had spent the night lying heavily on one of the buckles on my backpack, and, wide-eyed, I opened my mouth, to greet or blurt out nonsense at Marhkuhs, I couldn’t say.

But before I could get even a word out, Marhkuhs held a long finger to his lips, a warning look in his eyes and, once he knew I was going to be quiet, he rocked back on his heels and stood. I noted that he kept close to the wall and far out of the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the boarded windows. The brightness of the sunlight concerned me: how long had I been asleep? I dismissed the thought, making room in my head for more important matters like what had Marhkuhs so worried.

I quickly scooped up what things I had and pulled on my pack, fastening the buckles at my waist and chest and then silently following Marhkuhs’ lead out of the room. I caught up to him when we had entered the next room, heading for the back door where we had entered.

“What’s happening?” I hissed at him. _There might not be any danger at all_ , I thought doubtfully, and narrowed my eyes suspiciously at the still silent Marhkuhs, _it may just be another of his ‘hilarious’ practical jokes_. I was fuming because he didn’t answer me right away and was too busy too looking back at the room we had just vacated, but that was because he had a good reason, I realised in the next second when I scornfully followed his gaze.

A shape moved in front of one of the windows, blacking out sunlight for a moment before it was gone. In unison we both looked at the door to see the knob being tried, rattling quickly three times to either side before the perpetrator ceased. I held my breath as we stood in the doorway, frozen, as a second shape passed over the same window.

“How long till they find the back?” I breathed, leaning in close to Marhkuhs, feeling comfort, for once, in his huge stature and the warmth radiating off him. I saw him glance down at me before his eyes flitted back to the windows and he pursed his lips, estimating. He had bags under his eyes, and I wondered how much he had slept last night.

“We better go,” He didn’t give me a straight answer, instead tugging my sleeve and pulling me, albeit slowly as to not make noise, through the abandoned building. I thought briefly that we were leaving Marhkuhs’ store room, the water barrel and the body of Gerrad Powers here, but there was really nothing we could do.

Stooping low, we entered the last room, the one with the back door, and slowly crept up to the exit. “Me first,” Marhkuhs’ voice was low and gravelly, and he quelled my protests in a single shake of his head, his eyes piercing and hard and mouth a severe line. There was no trace of laughter or warmth in Marhkuhs’ face right now, all the ease and amusement from last night gone completely, except in maybe the softness around dark blue eyes that already had tiny crow’s feet in the corners. Laugh lines. Mrs Ferwere always said that it was undignified to have defined crow’s feet before you were thirty because it meant that you spent too much of your youth smiling and laughing and not taking things seriously. But I felt a surge of joy and comfort at knowing that Marhkuhs had spent most, if not all, of his youth laughing and smiling to have developed even slight laugh lines at eighteen. That his life had not been horrible and hapless, despite living on the streets, until now. Until we had met. Until a week ago, where his home had offered him up like a pig for slaughter.

Marhkuhs gingerly felt the doorknob before testing it slowly, avoiding the hole in the frosted glass panel where he’d broken previously in favour of opening the door a fraction and pressing his eye to the crack, gesturing at me to get ready. I let out the breath I didn’t realise I had been holding and bounced on my toes a few times before shuffling my right foot back, as leverage for when I had to run. I hesitated. I mean, I _presumed_ we were running, but maybe Marhkuhs had a different plan, maybe we were going to attack. I wasn’t ready to attack. I didn’t even know if they were other Tributes out there, or something that could be much worse.

Standing out of the crouch, Marhkuhs left the door ajar and turned to me, leaning in close. “Okay,” He whispered hastily, gaze hard and unblinking on my own. “This is the plan. We run across the park back the way we came, back under the bridge with them train tracks on it, and then into the city. We stay off main roads and head round the city centre, _definitely_ staying away from that, okay?” I nodded, finding comfort, however small, in the plan of escape, not attack. “If you’re finding you’re slowing, get rid of the pack, okay? Means less weight and they might stop to inspect it if we’re lucky.” I nodded clumsily again, wiping my sweaty palms on my jacket, feeling small and childlike next to Marhkuhs.

“We stick together.” He whispered harshly, and then punched me softly on the shoulder. “Just follow me, shortie,” I saw fear in his tired eyes, and I had trouble swallowing before nodding a third time, but it was more of a jerky bob of my head, a muscle spasm in my neck.

“Stay close, run fast,” He turned back to face the door and I saw him take a deep breath before counting under his breath. I followed his lead and tried to restrain the terrified whimper that was congealing in my throat, making swallowing even harder. My chin was trembling, but I still hefted my backpack higher on my shoulders, tucked my whip more securely into my belt loops and positioned my feet again, leaning forward slightly, ready for takeoff. The only thing left to do was to quell my fear.

“One...” I heard Marhkuhs whisper, just loud enough for me to hear it, and I steeled myself, tightening and relaxing my calves instinctually.

“Two...” Came the second gravelly whisper, and I saw Marhkuhs’ huge, gloved hand skid up the frame of the door, gripping it, ready to tear it open. I ignored how hard the hand was shaking. Marhkuhs knew what he was doing. He had quelled his fear. He wasn’t scared.

And neither was I.

“ _Three_!”

 ----

We both tore out of the building, not paying heed to the whereabouts of out predators, just sprinting hard and fast across the park, feet flying across the ground, arms pumping at our sides. I was a pace or two behind Marhkuhs whose strides of his long, long legs equalled about two of my own. But I was lighter and smaller, so I could keep up with him, just. We reached the midpoint of the park, stumbling over the gravel path before the ground returned to grass, before we both heard the fierce “ _Hey_!” that fuelled both our legs and we didn’t look to see who had spotted us.

By the time we had run under the train tracks and were back onto the road, my lungs were burning and my thighs were starting to hurt. I didn’t slow down, though, and neither did Marhkuhs, who took off to the right as soon as we were off the curb and hurtling up the rough, asphalted street, and I followed. The sun was high in the sky, serving to warm my head and body and prematurely start the sweat forming on my forehead, armpits and upper-lip.

They were chasing us, I knew they were; I could hear them calling to each other behind us, and the sounds of their pounding feet. I would have estimated at least two of them, possibly three, and that made me wasn’t to curl up and cry right there on the road. Despair welled up in my stomach, leeching into my blood and making my heart thud harder and a sob to be wrenched from my mouth amid the panting. But I kept running, following my acquaintance through the city, and wondering how we were going to get out of this.

“Keep up!” Marhkuhs roared from ahead of me, but I saw he was slowing also. The Tributes behind us were surely catching up, but we kept true, staying off the main roads and dodging through side-alleys and between buildings. The air reeked of garbage and fear as we dodged trash cans and gutters, leaping over curbs and skating around corners. We had no chance yet of losing our chasers, but we could only do what we were doing and keep on holding that fragile thread of hope that led us through the city on a seemingly random route.

We rounded another corner together, now running at an even pace, and both of us promptly slamming into things warm and tangible. With a cry, I fell head over heels, rolling across the asphalt and over whatever- whoever- I had hit, skinning my hands and probably ripping my jacket. My terror welled up as I heard three very familiar cries join mine, Marhkuhs’ included.

At once, Marhkuhs and I scrambled to our feet, necks whipping from side to side to search for any signs of the chasers. Still on the ground were Rhododendron and Honeysuckle Raintree of District Eleven, gasping still and only just starting to check for wounds on each other from the crash.

“Come on!” I gasped, grabbing the closest Twin’s hand hauling them to their feet. After only a moment’s hesitation, Marhkuhs was pulling the other Twin up, and we were tugging them with us, yelling at them to run faster, faster, keep moving or we would all die together. We started running, gaining momentum after the stumbling half-jog we had to perform to get the Twins moving at a proper pace for fleeing for our lives, but they were still stumbling because Marhkuhs and I were faster than they were and were pulling on their arms too much. They must have been confused and they didn’t know what was going on, but we had to _move_. They hauled their arms from our grips and ran on their own beside us, picking up the pace to keep up with Marhkuhs’ and my own flying feet.

Together, our feet soared across the bitumen as our terror caught on to the Twins’ own, and my heart felt heavy and too big, weighed down with dread, fear seeping into my veins and making my blood run colder than ever before. I felt vague nostalgia tickling at the back of my mind but in a moment it was wiped out in favour of _more_ terror as we ran out of the alley where we had crashed and onto a main street.

And oh gosh golly _gee_.

Our predators were grouped down the road to the right, heads moving from side to side as they searched for us. I was correct, there were three of them, but from this distance all I could see was that one was relatively slender compared to the other two and had long red hair while the others were bulky and muscled and _huge_.

They spotted us as we barrelled out onto the broad stretch of road, one of the big ones pointing blatantly in our direction and they moved off as a pack, breaking out into a jog and moving towards us.

It was too late to go back, so we turned to the left and ran (no surprises there), Marhkuhs again slightly in the lead, followed by the Twins and then me, all of us really, _really_ wanting to win this race. Almost like our lives depended on it. Ha-ha, Isaac, you’re such a comedian.

“Of course there’s no escape till the end of the road!” Marhkuhs bellowed from the lead, head whipping from left to right as he scanned the road we were on, which seemed to be a shopping pavilion, lined with glass-windowed but door-less (Capitol people suck) shopfronts filled with mannequins and model objects. There was an intersection at the far end of the mall strip we were barrelling down, but I didn’t know if we could make it. The runners behind us were gaining, fast, but wemight, we _might_.

“Keep going!” I called back, both as an encouragement and a plea to the three people in front of me. My breath was coming out in harsh bluffs and they hurt my throat, my lungs burning with the effort, diaphragm contracting and relaxing painfully. My legs were aching and tired, and I knew that if I was standing still they would be trembling as if the ground was shaking. Sweat was streaming off my forehead and matting my hair down, sticking like sheen to the bags under my eyes and over my lips. It tasted salty. Even my biceps and triceps hurt from pumping my arms at my sides, fingers clenched so tightly into fists that my knuckles were white and my nails were pressing and breaking through the skin of my palms.

And then it was a miracle; we were going to make it. Only a few more shops to go, a hundred and fifty metres, a hundred metres, fifty, and then we would be off the road and maybe be able to hide again. We could escape, maybe, hopefully. We could _survive_. A relieved sob tore from my lips in between the pants, but it turned into a cry of terror as the world exploded around us, windows of the last shops on either side of the road before the intersection shattering outwards onto the road with a devastating sound, like a gunshot through ice, causing me to throw myself onto the ground, maybe too late as the glass flew around us, whilst screaming for the other three to _get down_.

After ten seconds, I looked up from the cradle of my arms, hands bleeding, face cut, elbows and forearms not to mention what else skinned under my clothing. The first thing I registered was my command had been heard and obeyed, Marhkuhs still a little ahead of the Twins but all three of them curled in on themselves on the ground. I scrambled to my feet, hands getting pierced and even more scored from the glass on the ground, calling to the three that it was safe to rise.

I turned with anticipation to see that whatever higher power was out there loved me to pieces because the Monster Tributes behind us had hit to ground too and were only now getting back to their feet. We had time, if we moved _now_. Blood dripped from a cut on my bottom lip and one across the bridge of my nose, as I spun back to my people, who were thankfully on their feet, but for some reason not moving, looking down the end of the street we were hoping to be at, oh, _about now, people_. “Let’s go!” I barked, and I stepped forward, only seeing what they were when I reached Marhkuhs’ side.

It had not been just a simple explosion, I now saw, stopping dead and staring like a deer caught in headlights as the other three were doing. Two figures were only about twenty metres in front of us, eerily tall and silent, white-skinned and faceless. They had smooth bald heads on their gleaming bodies, humanoid in shape but featureless and stiff, just standing from where they had burst out of the shop windows on either side. They were dressed in designer clothes, one in a black summer dress that reached mid-calf and fitted to the perfect human figure, a few bangles clinking in the wind on hard wrists that fed hands with conjoined fingers, a turquoise and gold necklace around its slender neck and plain black shoes on its small feet. The other was in brown slacks, an orange sweater-vest over a white dress shirt on the torso, with a fat gold watch on its left wrist and a straw bucket-hat place jauntily and unmoving on the back of its bald head, plain black leather shoes on its invisible feet.

The mannequins watched us in absolute stillness, the only thing moving about them was their clothes blowing in the wind, and even from here I could hear the bangles on the most-probably female one’s wrists. I was holding my breath, feeling my chin tremble again in terror, and I heard a snuffling from behind me that was either Honeysuckle or Rhododendron, I couldn’t tell which. The upside to the silence stretching on for years was that I couldn’t hear the Monster Tributes approaching, meaning that they, too, were frozen in fear.

I don’t know how long we stood there, not knowing what to do. It could have been hours or just mere seconds, but I started to feel impatient. What was going to happen? I could tell Marhkuhs was too, the edginess oozing off him in waves. But I didn’t dare move, even though the sweat on my forehead was cooling and I was dying to scratch it like crazy, and I just remained still, eyeing the dummies in front of us warily, knowing they couldn’t be for anything good.

“What-” Marhkuhs’ whisper to me practically tore through and destroyed the silence, and that one syllable changed it all. Both mannequins’ heads snapped at a supernatural speed to Marhkuhs, and I knew we were done. Marhkuhs noted the change and snapped his mouth shut, clenching his jaw tight and again stared in shock at the mannequins.

“Run,” I gasped, turning tail and stepping away from the muttations. Because that’s what they were, no matter what they looked like, how normal or mundane they appeared, they were created in a lab and bred to kill. My left calf throbbed in memory of my phantom injury and I wanted to run my hands over it to check to see if it was still okay.

“What? Where?” Marhkuhs asked, turning to me, eyes wide, voice hard and loud due to his fear.

“ _Run_!” I roared, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him after me. The Twins followed, but everything seemed to be going in slow motion, our footsteps not long or fast enough, jackets whipping around us, boots heavy like weights upon our feet. It didn’t seem to matter that we were heading towards the Tributes that had been hunting us, because they, too, were gaping like fishes out of water, and only when we were in their midst did they turn and run with us.

In that moment we were not the allies and the enemies, we were not the prey and the predators, not the chase and the chasers. We were just children, all seven of us, young and scared, running from the real monsters behind us.

A quick glance over my shoulder showed me what I already knew. The dummies were gaining on us faster than the three Tributes had been when they were chasing us. It was unnatural and completely wrong to watch. They ran smoothly, bending impossibly at where joints should be, beautifully moving, as smooth as velvet, god-like and perfect as they skated after us, gliding over the ground on long, quick strides as easily as if they were skating over water. Their clothes whipped around them and the most-probably male’s hat was still fixed fast in place on the back of his head, and that was totally stuck on or I was calling it.

I wanted to live so much that I felt like I was dying. My legs were going to stop soon, just disconnect from my brain and cease to work, and I was already envisioning my body crashing onto the ground and being abandoned by my fellow Tributes to the mercy of the mannequins. My lungs couldn’t get enough air in and weren’t inflating properly; I felt like I was only inhaling half a breath, and exhaling far too much. Sweat was pouring down my face again, reheating it and stinging the new cuts and incisions in my skin.

I only knew where we were headed when we were two hundred or so metres away. There was a tall business building, maybe four storeys high, with two glass doors at the end of this abominable street, and hope bloomed in my chest so suddenly it was painful. I'm pretty sure tears _actually_ sprung into my eyes. I didn’t know if getting inside that building would stop the mutts, but it was our only shot and, _god_ , I was willing to take it.

We were all headed there, and I didn’t care if the other Tributes got inside too. Actually, I don’t think I would have had the heart to lock them out to this fate, because of all the disturbing stuff I'd seen in the Hunger Games over the years this was in the top five.

We reached it, we _actually reached the doors_. I moaned in relief as I slammed into the glass first, letting another sob out, and wrenched the doors open. Marhkuhs took one from me and we turned to usher the other Tributes inside, mutually agreeing to hold the doors open for them all. Only now did I realise how close the dummies were, only a few dozen or so paces away, and panic flared in my belly. Surely we would all get through. We were so, _so close_.

“Go, go, go!” Marhkuhs was bellowing from opposite me, pushing each Tribute in with his powerful arm, the other holding the door wide. I shouted encouragement too, and _man_ , how long did it take to get five kids inside a building?

I counted them as they went in. Rhododendron was first through, holding tightly onto his sister’s hand as they flew through the door, leaping over the threshold and into the foyer. Next were the three others, the red-head before the other two, but all three went in soon enough, but it felt like it took them an age.

Marhkuhs and I stepped forward at the same time, still holding a door by the ornate handle each, minimising the space to get through. I glanced at the mannequins and shook in terror at how close they were. They were still so fluid and graceful, and the sun was shining behind them. They gleamed like angels.

“Isaac,” Marhkuhs’ voice brought my eyes away from the rapidly approaching terror and I felt somehow soothed, just a little, by his blue eyes. “Get inside, brother. I’ll close the doors after you.” He said softly, and something was dodgy about his voice, his words, his expression, but my brain was numb and I consented too easily.

“O-okay,” I sobbed, fear rattling my voice and I cursed myself, feeling weak, but Marhkuhs just pushed my gently through the doors, hand lingering on my back before he was shutting the doors after I was safely inside.

And he was still on the outside.

“ _Marhkuhs_!” I screamed, brain no longer numb but roaring back into life, and his hands flashed around the handles, and with absolute despair I saw the rope from my pack in his fingers being tied around the decorative handles of the doors. _Oh, god, no._

I slammed against the glass, but I was too slow. Marhkuhs had finished his work and done it too well, and I could do nothing as the doors bent open only the tiniest bit under the weight of my shoulder, and I looked through the glass to see him staring at me, not even looking at the muttations almost upon him.

I stopped, frozen, and stared into his face, pressing against the glass as close as I could. “Please,” I breathed, breath fogging the door with condensation, and I doubted he could hear me but I couldn’t help myself. Marhkuhs just looked at me, and when he knew he had my full attention, a smile slowly crept up his face, and it was the best smile I had ever seen, ever will see. It was shaky and his jaw was trembling, the smile wobbling, but it was so warm and there and _real_. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed thickly, one tear, just one, falling off his dark eyelashes and rolling fast down his freckled cheek and onto the ground by his feet, eyebrows creased and as wobbly as the curve of his mouth. But this smile was everything: acceptance, love, friendship, death, life, praise, warning, family, promise. All in one smile, all being conveyed just to me, the last person he would ever see.

_That’s right, brother, come on_.

I screamed in grief and anguish when Marhkuhs’ blood painted the glass, and I watched him get torn apart by glossy, perfect angels from behind uncertain safety, held shut by a thin, tatty rope that was stronger than I anticipated. I saw their conjoined fingers dig in straight through his layers of clothing and then the layers of skin and muscle and sinew, and rip his body through as one would put a spoon into and out of warm butter. I saw the blood spray and coat the glass, saw the hands rip right through to where I could see them emerge from his chest underneath his stupid waterproof shirt.

All the while he faced me. I saw Marhkuhs’ stupidly blue eyes roll back into his head, whites gleaming from slits, and his mouth open to scream as they tore into his back. Blood erupted from his throat and he expelled that onto the glass, coughing and suffocating on wet warmth. Drowning in his own blood. He fell against the door, smearing the blood in greasy arcs, hands clawing and scrabbling, for what I didn’t know, forehead smudging curves and blots as his knees gave way and he crumpled down the glass to the stained cement below.

The cannon fired after an eon of time. I hoped it was late and Marhkuhs had died long before they finally announced his death, but I wasn’t sure. I watched the whole thing in silence, the only sound that had escaped me was the first scream as Marhkuhs began to get torn apart. I wondered, in some part of my brain, if they were going to censor this on the television. I was dully surprised that there could be such a gruesome death. Normally, death by muttation was getting eaten, or a poisonous bite or something. Not shredded apart, ripped to mincemeat like you were dispensable. Marhkuhs hadn’t been dispensable. Six people were alive because of him.

The mannequins stopped their digging as soon as the cannon fire boomed, and they straightened up from the bloody corpse they had been working over. They just stood motionless for a beat, arms up to the elbows crimson, blood coating their clothes, unidentifiable pieces of matter spread randomly on their smooth bodies, before moving off; dancing as smoothly and agilely as they had appeared, back down the street, the way we had come.


	16. Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We could...” Rhodondron looked at me seriously, “Talk to them?” I raised an eyebrow.
> 
> “And say what?” I scoffed. “Hey guys,” I put on a nasal, high pitched voice and pulled a face, “You were chasing us before but now let’s be BFFS, kay?” Rhododendron poked his tongue out at me and rolled his eyes, frustrated at my mocking.
> 
> “It could work!” Honeysuckle preached, looking at me earnestly. I saw Rhodo frown at the floor for a moment and mouth BFF, and I realised that District Seven must have some weird lingo of its own.
> 
> “We could talk to them show them the meaninglessness of this whole thing! We could stop this!” Honeysuckle continued.

I stared shakily out the glass, trembling and staring at the bloody heap at the bottom of the door that was once Marhkuhs. I brought a hand up to my mouth, and felt my fingers jitter against my lips before I turned to the side and heaved, stomach roiling, all the food I’d ever eaten being expelled from my mouth and into the plastic pot plant that was beside the door. I kept vomiting until I was pretty sure my stomach was empty of everything, but I continued to dry-heave, unable to breathe, fingers scrabbling on the marble side of the pot. I thought I was about to throw up my actual stomach in a moment, so I sat back, gasping, using all my self-control to gasp air and keep from gagging again. I was still shaking and tears were streaming down my face, though I couldn’t quite remember if I had been crying before I started to vomit or if it was due to the heaving. Either way I was exhausted, physically and mentally, and only now did I remember that I had an audience.

I turned around, dragging my sleeve over my mouth, feeling the rough fabric catch on the congealing blood on my lip and opening the cut up again. I didn’t even care. I was still on my knees, only retching slightly, but I don’t think I could get up even if I wanted to. My head hurt, my throat felt like I had just chugged straight methylated spirits mixed with acid and my legs were as weak as jelly. All the cuts on my body were hurting, and I'm pretty sure if I tried to see how many injuries I had, they would be without number. Scrapes, bruises and cuts, not to mention my torn-apart hand and slashed knee.

I blinked a few times to get my vision in to some clarity, and saw the remaining Tributes had again separated into groups. The Twins were huddling near me, only a few feet away, both with wet eyes and tear tracks on their faces, mouths trembling, clinging to each other and looking like they just wanted to hug me. Their hair was messed and they had cuts on their faces and hands. They didn’t have any visible resources from what I could see, so they either had none or had a home base, like Marhkuhs had.

The other three were near the curving reception desk towards the back of the room. They, too, were in sort of a huddle, not touching but close together, as if drawing comfort from the warmth and proximity of the others, but too tough to seek physical consolation. They were watching me, and I flicked my eyes between both groups before scrubbing a hand over my face, smearing blood and spittle and saying “You guys suck,” in a croaky, dry voice that was clear to them all.

Rhododendron and Honeysuckle both gave small, teary laughs, but I was surprised when I heard one of the other three restrain a giggle. I frowned and looked over at the group, blinking again, and got a shock as my blurry vision cleared and I recognised the red hair and pretty, dark eyes. Gracewyn waggled her fingers at me in a half-hearted, sheepish way, like she hadn’t just seen Marhkuhs die and hadn’t hunted us through the streets, but I was too startled at seeing her to respond.

With a sinking feeling I recognised the other two as well, though more vaguely than Gracewyn. One was male, tanned and hulking, broad shoulders and thick arms and neck with dark blonde hair and a flat nose. I think he was from District Ten, and I so, so regretted annoying him on Parade Night right then. The other was Estelle, lovely Estelle, from District Two, whose eyes were not meeting mine, and I prayed she didn’t remember me from the night I had killed Timmy. Now that I had a good look at her, I saw she was tall, with dirty blond hair cut short, high cheekbones, and a pouty mouth.

We must have been in an expensive building, by the looks of the lobby we were currently camped out in. The room was big; wide and rectangular, a curving desk down by the wall at the opposite end of the room to me, pot plants framing it, and two elevators each on the adjacent walls, four in total. There was a big-ass, glittering chandelier dangling from the ceiling, and the floor was tiled marble, sectioned off into an alternating pattern of black and white rhombuses. There was an emergency staircase in a dingy corner to the left of us behind a door with a heavy wooden frame and two glass panels set in it, showing us the boring, grey staircase behind it. The words **emergency exit: staircase** were on it, just in case we couldn’t see through the glass.

We sat in heavy silence for a while, and I could feel the tension oozing into the room. I edged nearer to the Twins, though my brain was still too shocked and nerve wracked to think of an actual plan yet. The fact still remained that the other Tributes in this room were going to try and kill us. _Hell, the Twins might even try to kill me_ , I thought suspiciously, as I tried to eye the dark-skinned kids beside me without being too obvious. I don’t know how successful I was, but as soon as I’d come within arm’s reach of Honeysuckle she was instantly slipping an arm around my waist and cuddling in close, head nestling into my should, and I knew that they couldn’t be that bad.

“I'm so sorry, Isaac,” Honeysuckle told me, and I stiffened under her, but she didn’t move away. I was uncomfortable. Okay. So maybe for a second I had forgotten it was the Hunger Games, but I couldn’t have helped Marhkuhs’ death... I scoffed at my own thoughts. I totally could have stopped it. Made him go inside first. Pulled him in after me. Checked my backpack this morning to see if all my supplies were in there. Tried more that _once_ to break through the rope. Not turned into a freaking petrified, blubbering mess who let himself be fooled by his own _acquaintance_.

But Honeysuckle’s comment still made me itchy beneath the skin. From previous viewings of the Games, everyone had seen those select Tributes who made personal connections. I don’t have to explain it; we all knew it would never end well. So I had tried to avoid it, honest, I had tried. But the real situation was different to just deciding you’re going to be a pretentious asshole before you met the people.

So, yeah, maybe I hadn’t tried at all.

“Yeah, Isaac, I’m sorry, too,” Rhododendron turned his pretty eyes on me and patted my hand sympathetically. From anyone else, this action would have seemed shallow or petty, but from Rhodo I could feel the compassion rolling off him and this touch just completed it. I was avoiding looking behind me because I knew I would see the messy disaster that was the doors covered in an ocean of blood and some questionable blobs of matter, and then the dark shape crumpled at the base which was Marhkuhs’ body. It was on the bottom of my list of _things I never want to see ever in my entire life_.

“I’m okay,” I grunted out hoarsely, pressing my cheek into Honeysuckle’s hair, but only for a moment, and then I lifted my head up again. I scratched at my chin and felt the smoothness that marked the absence of the stubble that usually would have coated my cheeks by now. It had seemed a small thing when they had put on that minty-smelling cream on my face that I had had to leave on, and I never realised how I could miss such a small thing as having stubble.

I sighed, and decided that now was the time to get down to business. “What’re we gonna do?” I asked in a low voice so only Rhodo and Honey could hear. They looked at me, and I cast the other group a sneaky eye to see them conversing, too. When I looked back at the Twins, who were now holding hands, they were sharing meaningful looks and then turned to me. I shifted nervously under Honeysuckle, felt the urge to vomit rising again, and worked hard to swallow.

“We could...” Rhodondron looked at me seriously, and I expected something like ‘ _sneak attack, full force, kamikaze charge_!’ or ‘ _just sit here quietly, maybe make a few flower crowns with the flora I keep stored in my_ -‘ “Talk to them?” He finished, interrupting my thoughts, and I raised an eyebrow, only to lower it straight after, grimacing in pain. I must have a cut somewhere along my brow. Ouchie.

“And say what?” I scoffed. “ _Hey guys,_ ” I put on a nasal, high pitched voice and pulled a face, _“You were chasing us before but now let’s be BFFS, kay_?” Rhododendron poked his tongue out at me and rolled his eyes, frustrated at my mocking.

“It could work!” Honeysuckle preached, moving away from my shoulder to sit by her brother and look at me earnestly, though she kept a comforting hand on my forearm. I saw Rhodo frown at the floor for a moment and mouth _BFF_ , and I realised that District Seven must have some weird lingo of its own. Oh well, they got the gist. I dragged my backpack off my shoulders finally and rooted around inside for my canteen. I only took a short drink, but it quenched me and I regretted screwing the cap back on the top of my bottle.

“We could talk to them show them the meaninglessness of this whole thing! We could stop this!” Honeysuckle continued. My brain buffered for a bit over the length of the word ‘meaninglessness’, and I had to consciously check if I had drool dripping down my chin because I felt that retarded. And then what she had actually said hit me and I glanced around nervously, tugging gently at the collar of my shirt, nibbling on the inside of my lip.

“It won’t work,” I muttered angrily. Honey thrust her jaw out defiantly at me.

“Why not?” She snapped, raising her chin but keeping her soothing hand on my arm.

“They’re people too, Isaac,” Rhododendron reminded me gently, and I clenched my jaw, breathing in through my nose.

_“Where were you?” Gabriella snapped. I gestured to the Tributes in line behind our carriage._

_“Talking.” I answered. She gave a surprised look to the carriages._

_“With_ them _?” she looked aghast._

_“No, with the President,” I snarled, feeling offended on behalf of the people I just met. “They’re people too,” I added._

My throat worked hard to get the words out. “If it wasn’t for these guys, Marhkuhs would still be alive.” I managed, though it was very strained, and I saw Honeysuckle’s face crumple and Rhododendron’s mouth tighten as he convulsed silently with a sudden sob.

“But what about Gracewyn?” Rhododendron pointed out sadly. “You like her, don’t you? She’s your friend...” I looked at him, then, feeling my face smoothen out and go blank. I shook my head.

“Never was,” I mumbled. “No,” I looked away from him, and tried to ignore my white lie. I heard them both sigh but I had a right to be bitter. I had a _right_ , goddammit.

“Could have fooled me,” Honeysuckle grumbled, and I ground my teeth but kept my head lowered. The feeling of sickness had left me to be replaced by bubbling anger. I was right. It _was_ those three’s fault that Marhkuhs had died, and they should pay.

“You guys-” I started through gritted teeth, thinking to petition the Twins to get them on my side. Attacking would be much easier with three people. Or, at least, more than one person.

“No,” Honeysuckle cut me off and held up a hand to stop my appeal, both physically and verbally. “We’re not going to join in on your suicide mission,” She huffed.

“But I didn’t even say-” I protested, both furious and dubious that she had seen my plan.

“Oh, I could tell what you were thinking,” She rolled her eyes, and I glared at her. I would not be knocked down by a fifteen-year-old.

“If we just-”

“No,”

“But they’re-”

“ _No_ ,”

I slapped a hand to the hard, shiny marble ground. “ _We can-_ ”

“I said no, Isaac,” Honeysuckle was so casual she could have been filing her nails, looking at me disdainfully as my face turned red and my jaw rippled with anger. Rhododendron was watching our exchange mutely, wide eyes following the invisible words that bounced between us, the fingers of his left hand absently picking at a scab on his right hand’s knuckle.

“ _Why_?” I hissed. It would be easy. Get up now, run over there, take out my whip, cut those bastards to pieces while they're still surprised and then get out of here; split from the totally-disagreeable Twins and skedaddle back to the ‘burbs.

Honeysuckle sighed before reaching over to slap Rhododendron’s hand. “Don’t pick,” She said to his affronted eyes before turning to me. “First,” She ticked off one long, brown finger, “We just ran, like, five miles. We’re physically exhausted, and if you think three skinny kids who are already dead on their feet can take those three over there, who are about twice _your_ height, you beanpole, then you need to take a second to think.” I pursed my lips, about to lecture her on the beautiful concept of the element of surprise, but before I could, she was going on. “Secondly, Rhodo and I don’t have any weapons. Our fingernails aren’t even that long. How do you expect us to attack?” I saw Rhodo shift uncomfortably, and I noted the movement, but was too pissed off the focus on him right then.

“Flower power?” I snarled, and she gave me that look. You know, the ‘ _why am I even talking to you, you’re so retarded’_ one.

“Don’t be mean,” Rhodo told me, and I rolled my eyes.

“Time to grow up,” I snapped at him without looking. He didn’t respond, and I turned to see an affronted, hurt look on his face. I immediately felt bad, so I reached out to him. “I’m sorry,” I said, and patted his knee. He grumbled acceptance, and that’s when I realised how annoying I was. I had managed to piss off both Raintree Twins, the most tranquil kids I'd ever met.

I wanted an award.

“Are you done?” Honeysuckle fingered one of the twin plaits trailing down over her shoulders. I made a face at her.

“Aren’t you older than us?” She rolled her eyes at me. If she’s not careful, they're going to roll right out of her head. “You’re supposed to be the mature one here,”

“Says who?” I smirked. If I was going to be annoying, I may as well put it up to full throttle. And I remembered the perfect conversation to parrot.

_“Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one?” I teased._

_“Who says?” Marhkuhs asked._

_“Logic,” I said smugly, and he gave me a confused look. “You’re eighteen, I’m seventeen.” I elaborated, and he scoffed._

_“So what? Let’s mix it up a little. Throw around some stereotypes. I want to do things differently.” He declared, raising the backpack like a toast._

“Logic,” Honeysuckle sniffed, crossing her arms. This was perfect. I almost laughed. And I had the ideal answer stored up in my memory.

“So what? Let’s mix it up a little. Throw around some stereotypes. I want to do things differently.” I declared, and she just frowned at me. Now I laughed at her befuddled expression but I had to stop because my jaw ached from when Marhkuhs had punched me yesterday. I knew if had a mirror I would see a nice bruise blossoming along the side of my jaw.

“You’re so _weird_ ,” Honeysuckle giggled, and I was glad I had amused her. Got her out of the funk she had been for proposing a stupid idea. _Talk to them_. Pssh.

“I’m gonna go talk to them,” She amended, standing, albeit shakily, using my shoulder as a crutch. _That_ was the stupid idea; back again for round two of ‘ _Let’s see how insane we can make Isaac without physically touching a hair on his head’,_ the Capitol’s favourite game show.

“What? No!” I floundered like a fish out of water, “They’ll kill you!”

Honeysuckle just rolled her eyes. Again. “We’ve all been through a life-threatening, agonising ordeal. We’re all mentally scarred, and _they're kids just like us_ , Isaac. They’re human. We’re human. We’ll work it out.” I just gazed at her, incredulous. Did she not _watch_ the previous Hunger Games? Come _on_!

“I don’t... I don’t think it’s a good idea, Honey,” Rhodo frowned in thought, voicing reason.

“Listen to your brother,” I added in.

“Look, Rhode,” Honeysuckle ignored me, weight leaving my shoulder as she moved to her brother and placed the tips of her fingers on his head, which was as far down as she could reach without bending over since she was standing and Rhododendron was sitting. “They won’t. I believe it. Have faith in them.”

Rhodo bit his lip and looked at his sister, grabbing her hand (the one not on his head) and flicking the wavy dark hair out of his eyes. “I'm trying. But they... they did chase us here. They did get Marhkuhs killed.”

“Then have faith in me,” Honeysuckle crouched down and cupped Rhododendron’s face gently and lovingly with one bloody, dirt-caked hand, the other still on top of his head. “What does dad say? ‘ _If you can’t trust family-_ ”

“-Y _ou can’t trust no one_.” Rhododendron finished dully, almost in a sing-song sort of way. It must be said a lot at home.

“That’s right,” Honey smiled, proud. “So trust me.” Rhodo slowly nodded, though I could tell he was still disgruntled.

“Should we come with you?” I croaked, kind of hoping the answer would be no. For all this little fifteen-year-old could say to her brother, _I_ certainly didn’t have any faith in those other three. But there was no convincing her to stay.

“No, it’s okay. I can tell you don’t want to,” Honey smiled gently at me.

“Please don’t go to them.” I tried one more time, reaching out to snag the material of her pants. I didn’t care what she said; they weren’t going to be nice. But I was too scared and too tired to go with her. Too cowardly. I tried to convince myself that she wasn’t my responsibility and it almost worked.

Almost.

“They’re only human,” I echoed her words back to her softly, desperation filling my gaze as I tried to get her to understand. Humans wrecked things, humans only cared about themselves. Humans were the reason we were even _here_ \- humans ultimately only cared for one person in times of crisis- themselves. Humans had broken the world and, in a way of ‘fixing’ it, they had cast innocents into an Arena to spill blood and fight against one another when they didn’t even have complete knowledge of the world yet. All that just for the people in power to stay on top and in ignorance, and to enslave millions, not to the idea of fear, but to the irresistible scheme of hope. But she couldn’t see that. Why couldn’t she see that?

“That’s what I’m counting on,” She looked at me gently, her eyes full of hope and certainty. I tried to imagine being inside her head. She was the kind of person who could see the best of a bad situation- glass half full, the sun is still shining behind that veil of cloud. I imagined her vision would be so full of colour, whereas mine was almost monochromic. She would look so deep into people that their souls would almost be visible: glimmering sparks of light that were different for every person. And her soul would be one of the brightest- so full of love and faith that not even the apocalypse, the end of her days, could dull the trust she had in humanity. I didn’t want it to snuff out.

“It’ll be fine,” Honey smiled at me, a just-healed-over cut on her lip stretching and darkening to an angry red as her cheeks pulled at her mouth. I didn’t let go of her pants until she stepped away and tugged them out of my loose grip. My hand fell to the floor with a soft thump, my fingers still half-curled.

Rhododendron started to get up but Honey told him to stop. “It’s o _kay_ , guys!” She was almost laughing. She didn’t see the danger. How did she have so much faith in these people? “I’ll be right back! Wait here and babysit the seventeen-year-old, Rhode,” She took another step over, and I saw Gracewyn perk her head up from where the other three had been crouched together, probably talking about how much they'd like to kill us, or how funny Marhkuhs’ death was, or what their favourite colours were. I really didn’t have a clue, I was just speculating. Gracewyn murmured something to her Tributes and they looked over too, but they didn’t grab any weapons as far as I could tell.

Honeysuckle turned to face them and I held my breath. This was it. I should get up. _Do_ something. But all I did was sit and stare over at them as Honey slowly made her way over, arms up, fingers spread, showing she didn’t have any weapons. They eyed her sternly, eyes hooded, but they stayed on the floor. I saw them tense and the dude from District Ten even rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck from side to side. Honey was, like, half his height, so that was totally unnecessary. What a show-off-y prick.

“I’m not going to, like, attack you guys or anything, okay?” Honeysuckle called out, advancing slower still, talking as if to a wounded or frightened animal.

“Hey, Honey,” Gracewyn greeted from her spot on the floor, disregarding Honey’s declaration completely.

“Hi, _dear_ ,” Estelle mocked, shifting on her butt to a more comfortable position on the shiny marble. Honeysuckle just laughed gently, smiling encouragingly at Estelle’s dreadful joke. Not that Estelle probably knew she was joking. I was too worried to smirk.

“That’s her _name_ , moron,” The guy from Ten grunted, and rolled his eyes at Estelle, looking almost snidely apologetic at Honeysuckle. Why the heck did _he_ know Honey’s name? Shish kebob, if it was what I thought he was doing, he was laying it on _thick_. Desperate desperado.

“How was _I_ supposed to know?” Estelle tutted, brushing the hair angrily off her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“Well now you do!” Honeysuckle announced cheerfully and extended a hand to Estelle to shake, “I’m Honeysuckle from District Eleven, and it’s nice to meet you,”

Estelle scoffed and didn’t even acknowledge the outstretched hand. “Yeah it is,” she sneered. “You better believe it.” Honey laughed nervously before dropping the hand and shifting on her feet awkwardly. I could feel Rhodo practically vibrating next to me with nerves, fear and anger that his sister be treated that way.

“So what’s up, Eleven?” District Ten guy asked, sounding incredibly bored.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you guys?” Honey answered sincerely.

“You gotta answer three questions first,” Estelle butted in quickly, as Gracewyn opened her mouth to respond to Honeysuckle. Gracewyn sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if praying for patience, but let Estelle continue. Rhodo and I were watching with apt attention, but the last piece of our trio was holding her own. For now.

“Sure thing,” Honeysuckle even sounded uncomfortable right now, but stood her ground.

“First,” Estelle sat up fully now, and District Ten guys broad back suddenly blocked her from my view as he moved to a more comfortable position. But she sounded as gleeful and malicious as hell.  “What’s your favourite colour?”

I heard Honeysuckle stumble over her answer, clearly confused, but got it out after a moment. “Purple,” Came the breathy answer, and for a moment Estelle didn’t say anything, and then I heard a judgemental breath being drawn in and then Estelle clicked her tongue.

“O- _kay_ then,” The pouty-mouthed Tribute giggled, and I could _hear_ the sarcastic disdain in it and I wanted to run over there and rip her tongue out. Well, I wanted to do that before, but now the feeling was _intensified_. I saw the solid set of Ten’s shoulders roll, like he was uncomfortable but he didn’t do anything, even though I was egging him on mentally. Bitch.

“Next question,” Estelle sounded way too happy for just someone who had just been in a ‘ _life-threatening, agonising ordeal_ ’. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen, eleven months,” Honeysuckle answered, tucking her arms behind her back and tilting her head to the side. I would’ve tried to see this situation from a different angle too, if I was her. This was confusing.

“ _Right_ ,” Estelle drew out the ‘i’s in the word, and I wanted to punch her stupid pouty mouth so her lips blew up to the size of bananas. I got to my knees, ready to charge over there and wreak havoc, until I realised what toll the run had taken on me. My thighs shook when I lifted my weight onto my knees, and both my legs felt like they had been crushed by a wrestler. Jeesh, this was going to be a challenge if I wanted to move any time soon without a shot of adrenaline or twenty cups of straight caffeine.

“Okay, last question,” Estelle trilled in her stupidly high voice. I know realised why Timmy berated her so much, because _man,_ she was annoying. But then again, maybe I was just tired and angry and scared and being incredibly unreasonable. “Favourite animal?”

Nope, she was definitely really annoying.

“I like the sugar gliders,” Honeysuckle answered earnestly, and there was a pregnant pause where the air seemed to stick to everyone’s skin and the rank taste of my mouth was heavy on my tongue. I took in a shuddering breath, still on my knees, and trailed my fingers across the handle of my whip. My chin felt itchy where the blood had dried, and when I looked at Rhododendron next to me, I saw that he was on his knees, like me, and whispering a mantra under his breath.

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ”

“Okay,” Estelle finally said, and now she had gotten to her feet so I could see her again. Her greatcoat was open, the ugly blue shirt tight over her torso, and she had a holster on her thigh that I could see a three-pronged knife held in a scabbard attached to the strap. I had a bad feeling, but I tried, oh god did I try, to write it off as an inaccurate hunch.

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ” Came the muttering beside me, and I cast a glance sideways to see Rhododendron’s eyes shut tight, face screwed up, hands clenched in front of him, knuckles white and contrasting starkly with his brown skin, looking almost like he was in prayer.

“Estelle,” Gracewyn sighed from beside her psycho ally, almost _chiding_ , like she _knew_ what was going to happen.

But, then again, didn’t we all?

“We’re very sorry,” Estelle frowned, looking sarcastically sympathetic as she stepped up next to Honeysuckle. I sucked in a breath of air and tried to get up onto my feet, only to fall back on my knees when my legs failed me.

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ”

Honey took a few light steps away from Estelle, uncertainty sliding onto her cut-up face. “But,” she said, “What did I do wrong?” He voice quavered, but she stopped moving away and stood her ground. Maybe, just maybe, all wasn’t lost. “I just want to talk!”

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ”

“What you did wrong?” Estelle’s voice was annoyingly high. I had never hated anyone so much.

“Knock it off, Estelle,” District Ten growled, but he stayed sitting on his arse, not caring either way, really. I attempted, again, to rise, but my legs hated me. I was as useless as he was.

“But,” Estelle turned a mockingly confused glance at Ten, and slid the knife out of the scabbard on her thigh. Not good, not good, not good. “She didn’t answer the questions right!”

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ”

Gracewyn’s eyes slid closed and she took a deep breath in through her nose. Her dark red hair was in a high ponytail to keep off her face. I wondered if the girls got to choose their hairstyle before they went into the arena.  Gracewyn looked pissed off, and no wonder. I would be too, if I had to sit that close to Estelle.

“How did I not answer the questions right?” Honey cried angrily, and I channelled her, I tell you. How the _heck_ had she not answered the questions right? How could she get them wrong?

Estelle glanced over at me and Rhodo, whose head was still bowed, hands still clutched in front of him. And then she shrugged, and her grip on her knife became loose. _Maybe_...

“Okay, I guess it _is_ a little unfair...” She conceded, nodding. Relief slammed into me, and I relaxed, falling forward so I was on all fours, my hands taking some of the weight off my knees. A breath I didn’t know I was holding whistled out through my teeth as I bowed my head and let my eyelids fall shut. The chanting at my side faded, breaking off in the tiniest of thankful sobs. “I’ll ask you one more question. ‘Kay?” Estelle chirped, almost as an afterthought.

I tensed again. Rhododendron’s mantra began, faster and more pleading than before, and I heard a whimper escape my own throat.

“Favourite...” Estelle friggin’ _contemplated_ the question she was going to ask. “Food?” She finally finished, and I knew this was going to end badly.

I looked up again, just in time to see Honey set her expression, wiping the doubt clean off her face and clenching her jaw, stance powerful as she said “Salad.” It was very melodramatic, and I would have laughed if it were the appropriate time.

“ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ ”

Estelle smiled, then, and shrugged her shoulders. And then I saw why she was a threat. Her powerful shoulders tensed, hand tightening around the handle of her pronged knife, mouth pulling into an almost _coy_ smirk. “ _Wrong!_ ” she crowed as she swung her knife forward, slashing at Honey.

But I had underestimated Honeysuckle. She darted out of the way, jumping backwards and landing gracefully, poised to run. I had no idea what to do, but the danger was imminent and I had to do _something_. I started to crawl painfully to the wall, at the same time sliding my whip out of my belt loops. Rhodo had his head up now, eyes wide, watching his sister in an anguished silence as he knelt, frozen with fear.

_Please_.

Estelle and Honey were playing a game of cat and mouse whilst we all just watched. Estelle was swinging her knife and blocking Honey from running forward, towards us, slowly but surely forcing her backwards into a corner. Honeysuckle wasn’t trying to hurt her attacker, only escape, but was slowly getting herded in. I was shuffling as fast as my aching body would allow while Rhododendron sat as still as a statue and Gracewyn and the boy from Ten watched the game in silence, almost with _interest_. Whatever I had lied about before, Gracewyn was definitely _not_ my friend now. I begged her silently to do something, stop Estelle, save Honeysuckle, but she, like everyone, ignored my silent plea. Goddammit, why was no one telepathic?

Coincidentally, we both reached the wall at the same time: Honeysuckle’s heel hit the hard vertical surface at almost the same moment my fingers scrabbled against the wall on the other side of the room to her. I hoisted myself up to sitting position, using the shiny surface and my trembling arms, a buzzing filling my head. I clambered unsteadily to my feet as Honey backed fully into the corner space, eyes wide and flickering between her assailant and her brother desperately. I’m pretty sure I was yelling something, leaning heavily against the wall, but I couldn’t hear myself, though Gracewyn did shoot me an angry look over her shoulder, so maybe I was yelling at her. I hope I was.

“Please,” Honeysuckle called, pressed flat into the corner, pure terror on her face, as she tried to step back into imaginary space, boots skidding on the floor, the rubber soles screeching like dying animals against the tile. I saw Rhodo flinch at her plea out of the corner of my eye. “You don’t have to do this!”

Estelle, miraculously, stopped. I fumbled for the handle of the whip and stepped forward on shaky legs, aiming to head to that side of the room, but at the pace I was going, I wasn’t going to get there until next year. Man, I was unfit.

“You’re right,” Estelle said, voice clear, and I realised my lips were now shut tight, pressed together so hard they almost hurt.  “I _don’t_ have to do this!”

I took a quick look at Rhodo, and saw him still kneeling on the floor, mouth a tiny bit open, hands clenched in front of him. He still looked like he was praying, and I almost hoped he was. We needed all the help we could get.

“But I’m gonna,” Estelle continued, and it didn’t _feel_ final, it didn’t _feel_ like someone’s last moments, the last words spoken by a triumphant killer, and yet her hand was moving, slashing, and a red line appeared on Honeysuckle’s neck, getting bolder and starting to weep the longer I looked at it, and I was almost confused. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. If she was going to die at all, Honeysuckle should have had last words with her brother, a tearful moment full of love and telling him hope for the future. The least she could have done was _smile_ at him. I mean, her last words to Rhododendron were to _babysit me_. How stupid were _those_ last words? She can’t _die_ , she needed to tell Rhodo something. She _can’t die!_

Honeysuckle’s skinny, long-fingered brown hands lifted to her throat and she made this- this _gurgling_ sound, hands getting covered in the impossible amount of blood pouring out of the gash on her neck. Someone was yelling, and later I realised the deep, angry, wailing voice was mine by the raw feeling of my throat, but right then I couldn’t think of anything but Honey’s beautiful tawny-coloured eyes rolling into the back of her head, mouth gaping as she burbled again, knees failing her as she collapsed against the wall. I hadn’t realised that she could make such horrible sounds- she had always been so lyrical and spoke in such sweet tones- I just never thought such guttural and gross gargles could come from the same throat. Her hands looked shiny and almost lacquered with red as blood covered them, seeping from under her palms and running in long streams over her torso.

The cannon boomed, and the reasoning behind it was clear. Honeysuckle Raintree was dead, because they were human.

Just like us.


	17. Microwave Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got an insane urge to laugh. A microwave. We were attacking three very strong, very capable Tributes with a microwave. Oh lordy, this was gonna be goo-ood. Which was a lie. I was scared out of my brains and this was going to be terrifying.

There was silence. I was about two metres away from the wall, frozen, hands clenched on the whip. The useless, useless whip. I think Rhododendron was still sitting on the floor, but I couldn’t see what he was doing, how he was handling, because I couldn’t take my eyes off Honeysuckle’s crumpled figure in the corner amid the slowly forming puddle of red.

Estelle stepped away from the body, wiping her knife on her pants, turning to her allies. She didn’t even acknowledge the two of us, Rhododendron and I, over here on the opposite side of the room. She just shrugged in an ‘ _I couldn’t help myself_ ’ kind of way, and I heard the guy from Ten tut at her like she was a bad child or something. Gracewyn herself slapped a hand to her forehead and had the gall to cast me an apologetic face like Estelle was a toddler and had just drawn on the walls of my home or something, not killed a person.

A low moan came from Rhododendron, and we all looked at him as he stared at the corpse in the corner. The moan intensified and erupted into a crescendo, turning into a shriek as inhumane as a wild animal’s as he sprung from his place on the floor and I had no idea what I expected. In his hands I saw a tiny switchblade curled between his fingers, something he must have kept hidden from his sister, and he started charging across the room to where the other Tributes were.

Okay. I had to act. I unfroze, and adrenaline finally fuelled my limbs, only a _little_ bit late. I gritted my teeth against the pain and followed Rhododendron over to the other side of the room, whip uncoiled, but not about to attack. The anger at Marhkuhs’ death had dissipated to make room for the horror of Honey’s brutal murder, and my bloodthirstiness and irrationality had faded. We were no match for them. We had to get out of here.

I think the only reason Rhodo wasn’t dead yet because he had surprised the crap out of everyone. No one had expected the quiet, small, fifteen-year-old to start screaming like a banshee and go wild. Right now, even as I made my way over there, he was just getting to the others and seemed to punch the dumbstruck Estelle right in the gut. She gasped, hands flying to her abdomen as blood began to flow and I remembered the small blade Rhododendron had in his fist. Gracewyn and the other guy were only just starting to move, trying to discern the plan of the whirlwind that was Rhododendron.

Rhodo didn’t seem to even notice Ten or Gracewyn, just darted around their shocked forms to get behind Estelle and flip her coat over her head, exposing her back, and drawing a line with his knife from the meat of a shoulder to the opposite hip, and, _god_ , that had to be painful. She cried out and fell to her knees, the back of her coat still about her head, hands clutching her stomach.

Before he could cause any more damage, Ten called out a growling “ _Hey_!” and grabbed Rhododendron by the collar of his coat, lifting him off the ground, his small booted feet kicking. Ten placed his other hand on the crown of Rhodo’s wavy hair, his hand so large that it almost entirely swamped his scalp. Rhodo struggled under his grip, eyes squeezed shut as he yelled and cursed, twisting his head to and fro but to no avail as he couldn’t escape Ten’s grasp.

“ _Hey you_!” I bellowed, panicking, knowing with just a squeeze or a twist of his hand and District Ten guy could very well kill Rhododendron in a second. It worked, as Ten halted and looked at me quizzically, like he didn’t even remember I was there. Nice to know I wasn’t as big a threat as a kid half my height. My hand clenched around my whip and I swallowed thickly before flicking out with the weapon and succeeding in... nothing. The whip flopped lifelessly without even a crackle.

Well, that was embarrassing.

With a frustrated, guttural cry I cracked the whip again and this time it did what I intended, finally snapping out and hitting Ten on the cheek, breaking through skin and wiping the amused smirk off his face. He cussed and dropped Rhodo instinctively, raising his hands to his face as a trickle of blood escaped the broken skin. Score. I flicked my wrist again, stepping with the motion, and this time the whip got his thigh, forcing him to jump away from Rhodo, who was turning back to try and assault Estelle more without even a word of thanks to me. We couldn’t have that, so I darted forward and seized him around the waist and half-carried half-dragged him, kicking and screaming, towards the only escape I could see; the staircase.

Because I had one hand filled with squirming Tribute, I could only use my remaining hand to defend, and I was doubly-thankful I hadn’t gone and attached myself to a two-handed weapon. I used the technique I had learned in the Training Centre, tho one used to scare off attackers rather than assault them, which managed to keep Gracewyn and Ten at bay while I bypassed the (most likely not even activated) elevators and struggled over to where the door which the stairs were behind. To be frank, Estelle was not much of a threat as she huddled on the floor, moaning and bitching and swearing about the pain she was in. And I guess the girl _had_ just been stabbed in the stomach and raked along the back, but my sympathy did not run far with her.

I had to keep glancing behind me as I made my way over to the door, so every time I looked over my shoulder my eyes swept over the front door and the horror painted on it, but I tried my best to ignore it in light of the dangerous situation I was in currently. I managed, too, for the most part, only wincing slightly every time my eyes were drawn minutely to the dark shape still lying at the base of the door before flickering away. I wished now more than ever that the Gamemakers would collect the dead.

I hadn’t realised that I was in any danger from Rhododendron until the little bugger cut my thigh when we were two feet away from the staircase. I swore and instinctively let go of him, only to swoop forward and catch him, tighter this time, wrapping my arm firmly around his bony hips when he tried to run back to Team Certain Death, who were still attempting to advance on us. The momentary lapse in whip-cracking had caused them to gain a few more steps before the leather was beating around them again, forcing their hands up to protect their ears and faces.

I was bellowing with the effort, my arms sore from pulling a resisting and very much alive force and swishing the whip around repeatedly, not to mention the strain they’d gone through earlier that day. We finally reached the door, and I pressed my back against the wall next to it, hugging Rhododendron close to my chest.

“Open the door,” I commanded him, close to his ear but still raising my voice loud over the sound of my whip. Rhodo just gave an incessant, wordless yell of fury in reply and struggled more furiously to get away from me, but I just drew him tighter against my own body and jostled him, shaking him hard.

“Open the door!” I yelled at him, frustrated and pissed beyond belief. Rhodo refused, again (I presumed that he did, anyway- he didn’t go to open the door), and kept up with the nonstop wailing until I cut his voice off in a choke, squeezing him against me so tight it couldn’t get a full breath in and shaking him harder, jerking my elbow so I squidged in him belly and succeeded in winding him softly when he tried to stab me.

I don’t even know why I was doing this anymore. He was trying to gut me- why was I still trying to save him? But even as I considered the idea of letting him charge to his death, hot guilt pooled in my stomach and I felt ashamed at the thought. He wasn’t in his right mind, and letting him run to the Death Squad would just be cruel and brutal. Not to mention it would be a complete disrespect to Honeysuckle. I could just imagine her, bent forward slightly, plaited hair swinging over her shoulders, pointing a slender finger at me while planting her other hand on her hip and saying “ _Isaac, you better not let my little brother get hurt! I thought I had knocked the stupid out of you before I left!_ ”

“ _Open the bloody door, Rhododendron_!” I snarled and shook him so hard his teeth rattled and finally he stopped trying to poke me with that extremely sharp and tiny stick of his and fumbled with the door handle before pulling it open. I swung him angrily inside and he stumbled backwards after I returned his full weight onto those little feet of his, and then I dashed inside too, and slammed the door shut, holding it fast with aching arms. I was sobbing again, this time in frustration and pain, and I tossed a glare at him over my shoulder before I searched for a lock. Of course, this being an emergency exit and, y’know the _Hunger Games_ , there was none, and I grew terrified when Gracewyn and Ten arrived in front of the clear glass panel. I set my weight, leaning back over my heels and holding the door with as much force as I could muster. I knew it would do diddly-squat against Ten and Gracewyn, but I had to try. I heard Rhodo begin to cry behind me.

To my surprise, neither of them tried to open the door. I saw Ten reach for the handle, an angry look in his eyes, but Gracewyn grabbed hold of his arm before they could and whispered in his ear, and, after a few seconds, she convinced him of something and he nodded and they both left, giving me glares as they did so. Gracewyn made her way back the way we came, to Estelle I presumed, and Ten went over and sat in front of the carnage-smeared glass entryway. No escape that way then. Poop.

I had given them all a few lashings when they had gotten within range, but I'm afraid I hadn’t hurt them all that much. Until now, I had failed to see out un-lethal a whip could be. I mean, I had given Gracewyn a puffy eye, which may have impaired her sight a little, but that wasn’t going to help me all that much, let’s be honest. The most I had done was given them a few cuts and bruises. Well, you know what they say. A bruise a day keeps the Games at play. Hip, hip hooray.

Unsure of what to do now, I gingerly let go of the door handle and turned to face Rhododendron. He was sitting on the lowest step with his head in his hands, and he was sobbing so hard his little shoulders were shaking, his bawling cries echoing up the staircase. I ran my hands through my sweaty hair with frustration, tugging out my fingers when they got caught in the oily strands. I didn’t know what to do. I sucked at comforting people. Plus, I didn’t really even _know_ this kid. Did he like to cuddle when he cried? Or was he more of a person who threw things around and destroyed things when they were upset? I had no clue. My thigh throbbed where the freshest wound was, but, looking at the sobbing child in front of me, I didn’t feel angry. It was a shallow wound, anyway, just a slight stab.

I was reasoning with myself over a stab wound. I’d been in these Games too long.

“Uh...” I started, as poetic and as tactful as I could be. At the sound of my voice though, Rhodo looked up from his hands, and, oh god, he looked like a kicked puppy, all ruddy cheeks, eyes teary and shiny, with the mussed up hair and scrunched up nose, everything. How the heck did _I_ win cutest Tribute over _him_?

“I’m _s-s-sorry Isaac_!” he wailed, and then the sobs started again and, man, did this guy need a tissue. He buried his face back into his arms and began another full scale sobfest. I was so at a loss. I decided to take things one step at a time, and right now, we needed to get somewhere safer than... here. And that mean I had to move Rhodo. Somehow.

“It’s okay, little man,” I tried the gentle approach. I moved to stand in front of him and glanced up the stairs. There were no windows, no ways out that I could see. He mumbled something into his arms, and I gingerly patted his head. “There, there,” I said awkwardly, and I was _so_ out of my comfort zone right now.

Suddenly he stood and, with another giant wail, flopped into my arms and buried his face into my chest, crying his heart out. Guess he was a cuddler. I was going to get snot on my shirt.

But this _was_ convenient. With an internal sigh at how painful this was going to be, I lifted him up, curling one hand under his thighs and hoisting them up next to my hip while using the other to support his back and stroke comforting fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Slowly, I started to agonizingly ascend the stairs. Thank god this kid- I should really stop calling him a kid, he was only two years younger than me- was so light, he barely weighed more than a bundle of sticks. A big bundle of sticks, but still. Sticks. He continued to sob into my neck, even though I was craning it away, and by the time we had reached the first floor, you’d have expected him to have stopped crying, right? But no.

Then again, he had just lost his twin, so I guess I'd give him a free pass.

_Man_ , I was a giant prick when I was tired. Or all the time. I was just a horrible person.

I only made it to the second floor before I had to put him down. I stumbled into the corridor and it looked like this was the consulting floor, with offices on one side and a convenient little couch opposite the elevators where I could dump my crying package while still seeming sympathetic. And, truly, the only reason _I_ was holding it together was because I felt like I owed it to Honeysuckle and Marhkuhs. I owed it to Honey to keep her brother in some form of safety, and I owed it to Marhkuhs to keep myself alive. And I couldn’t do either of those things if I just collapsed and turned into a wailing mess like Rhodo was, no matter how much I just wanted to.

“I’ll...” I took in a shuddering breath and tried to contain my inner turmoil. “I’ll go scope the floor, o-o-okay?” I stammered, trying to keep a tight clamp on my feelings but not being entirely successful.

Rhodo just nodded, not even looking up from where he had buried his face into a pillow. I walked quickly down the hallway, pressing a shaking hand over my mouth. Through the glass door into the section of the offices were about a million cubicles, all complete with a small desktop computer, metal shelf, pencil tin and sharpener and waste-paper basket, nothing of which I dared to touch. Down the side of the offices there was another door which led to a kitchen which had a fridge, two microwaves, a small stovetop, a water filter and some cabinets. I rifled through them with the tiniest spark of hope, but there was no such luck. Not even the fridge was stocked. Cheapskates.

When I returned, Rhodo wasn’t howling anymore, but fat tears were still coming fast down his face and he was snuffling into the pillow. “A-anything?” he hiccoughed and looked at me with a watery gaze that told me he didn’t really care if I'd found a year’s supply of food in there or nothing at all.

“Not much,” I answered truthfully, planting my butt down beside him, but not too close that it was an invitation for a hug or to use my shoulder/lap/any part of my body as a pillow. My voice cracked on the end of my phrase, but I hoped he didn’t notice. I leant forward and rested my forearms along the length of my thighs and settled my weight on my elbows. I cleared my throat before continuing. “There were some cubicles with, like, computers and stuff, and also a kitchen with a fridge and two microwaves and some cupboards. No food or anything though, so that’s balls.” I rolled my eyes.

“Huh,” He said, and I don’t even know if he took in any of that at all. He took in a shuddering breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay,”

I nodded my head, having no clue what to say. I didn’t think that ‘hey man, sorry about your sister who you lost less than an hour ago. I knew you were close’ would cut it, so I said nothing.

“Microwaves you say?” He shocked me a little, and I noted that this must have meant that he had actually taken in what I had said.

“Yup,” I answered. I rubbed my nose with the heel of my hand and then gingerly felt along my jaw, trying to ignore the crackly feel of the dried blood. It was very tender, and I pressed my fingers against my chin, feeling the slow burn of a bruise.

“Huh,” he said again, and pulled the pillow closer to his self, hugging it tight. For another few minutes there was an awkward silence while my brain went through a static hum- every time I tried to bring it to think of a plan of attack it would just short-circuit with images of Honeysuckle collapsing or Marhkuhs being torn to pieces.  My hands were shaking around my whip, and I was just so tired. I never wanted to move again.

I wanted to look like I was doing something, so I dragged my backpack into my lap and rooted around inside till I found something I could play with. I checked if the torch was still working and then flicked that on and off for all of thirty seconds before I felt I would be annoying potential sponsors by looking like a retard, so I chucked it back in the pack. I then brought out my compass and spent a few minutes staring at it as it spun round and pointed to True North every time I moved my hand around.

After the agonising few minutes of my discomfited fumbling and Rhododendron’s barely-restrained sobs and snuffles, he finally said something. Which surprised me, because I expected him to never speak again, at the very least.

He mumbled something, voice scratchy and wet and I may have missed it.

“What’s up?” I garbled, startled into gibberish at the fact he was talking.

“I said I think I have a plan,” This time he said it only slightly clearer, but I understood. I grunted to show that he should continue and that I was listening with apt attention as I stared at my white knuckles gripping my whip.

“The microwaves explode when you use them, when the timer runs down, so we could either lure those bastards up here or chuck a microwave down there. They’re wireless here, in the Capitol. Easy as pie.” Rhodo said dully. In all honesty, it was a shoddy plan. I asked him how he knew they blew up.

“Me and-” He stopped short, breath whooshing out of his mouth. His lips struggled around the words, and then he was continuing like nothing had happened. “I spent the first night in the same apartment as the girl from Nine.” I remembered her, if only from her death portrait. Blond hair that spilled down her shoulders, rough face, slightly butch-looking. Tough girl. Dead in a day. “There was this, like, big communal kitchen space. She was being stupid we- _I_ warned her not to do it, but she heated up her food in the microwave anyway. When it reached zero it blew up, taking her and half the room with it.

“It burns everything. Her body was so _charred_ -” He gasped, rocking forward. I swallowed noisily, alarmed, but he recovered. “I think it would be smarter if we took or chucked the bomb down there.”

“Right,” I said faintly, and, really what better plan did I have?

“As soon as possible,” For the first time in a while, he rolled his bloodshot, watery gold eyes at me. “She’s waiting.”

“What?” Who was waiting? Estelle? _He_ was waiting for revenge? Whatever.

“Let’s do this,” Rhodo stumbled to his feet, ignoring my question in favour of throwing the pillow rather violently behind him back onto the couch.

I led him to the kitchen, feeling downtrodden and unstable. My hands were shaking and I had to grit my teeth to stop my jaw from trembling. I didn’t want to go downstairs again, and I was starting to feel the ache again from the death run and carrying Rhodo up the stairs before, not to mention that now I had acknowledged it, my jaw was hurting like a bitch. I really wanted to sleep, but I was afraid that when I finally did, I would have nightmares. If I ever slept again. Today might be my last day on earth. And to think, just less than twenty-four hours ago, I was teasing Marhkuhs about his lady troubles and wondering what bed bugs were.

What _are_ bed bugs?

We decided to set the timer for thirty seconds when we got down there. I tried to insist that I would do the dump n’ run, but Rhododendron yelled at me, pleading to let him carry the microwave into the lobby. I had to agree before he burst into tears again, and he scooped up the microwave gingerly, holding it tight to his chest but making sure not to press the buttons. I examined the panel of controls on the other one, and Rhodo assured me that if we just pressed the **start cooking/enter** button it would give us a thirty second count down to plunk it and skedaddle. I didn’t even have a clue if this would work, but, even if it didn’t kill them, this would hopefully at least distract them enough for us to get out of the building. And just think, I had thought this building would be our salvation.

We staggered tiredly down the steps, though we staggered tiredly with purpose. It was time to go big or go home. If we pulled this off, we would walk free, I’d say adios to Rhododendron trying not to feel too bad about leaving the kid alone and miserable and I could go back to the good life of freaking out and crying on my lonesome.

We reached the ground floor, being as stealthy as we could with a microwave in our clutches and scanned the area we could see outside the glass door. At most, forty-five minutes had passed, so we hoped Team We Wanna Kill You And Your Dreams had grown lax in security and we could just high-tail it out of here, but, of course, District Ten guy was still sitting cross-legged in front of the door and the bloody lump that had been Marhkuhs. He was slouched over and bored, fisted hand on his cheek, almost _snoozing_ , but still sitting there. Goddammit, go sleep somewhere else!

“Ready?” I leant over Rhododendron’s shoulder to whisper in his ear, my most-likely rank breath rustling his hair. He cast me a sidelong glance with pink-tinged and didn’t even react to my stinky breath, gold star to him. Rhodo nodded, bouncing the microwave slightly in his arms to get a better hold and prepared to charge. I got an insane urge to laugh. A microwave. We were attacking three very strong, very capable Tributes with a _microwave_. Oh lordy, this was gonna be goo-ood. Which was a lie. I was scared out of my brains and this was going to be terrifying.

With no time like the present to attack three douchebags, Rhodo paled considerably and pressed the **start cooking/enter** button and the microwave hummed, starting our timer.

30

I jumped to the door and opened it, stepping back out of the way as Rhodo charged through like a five-four rhino and gave a robust yell, hoisting the machine above his head on his little skinny arms. He ran to the centre of the room, and I didn’t know whether to be pleased or petrified that Ten’s head snapped up and he jumped to his feet and I heard Estelle roar “ _There you are, you little vermin_!”

20

_Hurry up and put the thing down_ , I thought, edging into the room quietly, shuffling towards the glass entryway. I’m pretty sure both myself and Rhododendron avoided looking at the fallen body of Honeysuckle sprawled over in the corner, not being able to afford to be distracted. Only Gracewyn had noticed me, but I'm pretty sure I was dismissed in place of the insane little man in the centre of the room, who was cackling as he held the microwave higher above his head. All three Monsters were walking towards him, unhurried but nearing, and Rhodo really needed to get out _fast_ or he was gonna be killed before the thirty seconds were up and ruin the plan.

10

“Come on!” I whispered under my breath, not really hoping anything. Something was wrong. Rhodo wasn’t coming over, and I started to doubt if he ever planned to. He was now hugging the bomb close to his chest and dancing out of the way of the advancing three, who looked both like hostile beings capable of tearing that laughing child apart and at the same time like beat up kids themselves.

5

Estelle had recovered, it seemed. She was hobbling and wincing with every step, but she was the closest to Rhododendron and snarling, spit flying from her mouth. My stomach clenched with worry and maybe a little anticipation. They were going to die. They were _going_ to _die_ , all four of them.

4

Gracewyn, it seemed, had noticed the microwave, but ignored it in favour of a looking at me, eyes narrowed in a sudden suspicion at my white face and clenched hands. I could hear it humming from here, even from under Rhodo’s perverted, distorted, high-pitched hooting. Just think, the last things those four would hear was the laughter of a heart-broken child and the hum of electricity.

3

I let out a sob, I couldn’t help it. It kind of just burst out of my chapped lips, I didn’t mean for it to happen. Gracewyn saw and suddenly straightened up from her prowl, realisation dawning on her face. She had always been the smart one, and had prided herself on telling our group that so many times. Our group, who only two of which would be left within the next three seconds. They had Rhodo pressed against the wall now, all three of them only about a metre or two away from him, but he was still laughing, though it sounded almost like sobbing now.

2

Gracewyn must have mad a noise, something to alert the other two that not all was right, because Estelle and Ten- I didn’t even know his name. Did that even matter anymore?- stopped stalking Rhodo too and looked towards me, Ten peering over his broad shoulder, not wanting to turn his back on the fifteen-year-old. My eyes moved to Rhodo, who I could see under Ten’s massive arm, to find that he, too, was looking at me. He was still sobbing or laughing, I didn’t know which, but tears were streaming steadily down his face as he hugged the microwave to his chest even tighter and grinned.

1

I raised my hand, in a salute or a wave to send them off, I didn’t even know myself. Maybe I was just reaching out for them. Gracewyn’s eyes flashed with clarity and she took one step away, but it was too late. The microwave gave a cheery beep to signal that the food was nice and warmed and I saw of Rhodo tip his head back and smile joyously at the roof.

_She’s waiting_.

The heat was intense, and I brought up my arms to shield my head from most of the heat wave but I still think my eyebrows were blasted off as it forced me to stumble back a few steps. None of the actual fire reached me, but I was still caught in the scorching invisible force of heat that flew out from the centre of the explosion. I heard them scream, all four of them, as they were roasted alive in the blast of fire, and I knew I would never forget those screams. I fell to my knees then onto my side and curled up into a ball on the ground, sobbing unbrokenly into my arms which were still about my head, knees tucked into my chest, back pressed against the wall.

Four cannon fires followed, and I was surprised I could hear still. I buried my head further into my arms. I didn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe I could just stay here and starve to death. No, scratch that, I didn’t want to die- maybe not that I didn’t _want_ to die, but that I _couldn’t_ die- I owed it to about three people now. I couldn’t just let myself die.

I stayed curled for about five minutes after the temperature of the room returned to normal. When I finally did look up from the cradle of my arms, there was a black stain covering the wall and the floor in the area where Rhodo had been standing. Four corpses were laying on the floor, clothes totally burnt off, bodies unidentifiable apart from the smallest, which had to be Rhodo. There was a sickening smell of roasted meat in the air, along with the acrid smell of burnt hair.

I had to get out of there. I used the wall to climb heavily to my feet, and I kept an arm over my mouth and nose to attempt to block out the smell. I leant against the wall and slowly, painfully made my way around to the glass doors still painted with Marhkuhs’ blood. The rope was still around the handle, and I did not have the strength to break it down. It felt like I didn’t even have the strength to pick up a feather right now. I pressed against them futilely, and let out a small whine of desperation when they didn’t move much. The dark shape heaped at the bottom disturbed me, and I was feeling twitchy as I tried to peer around the wash of blood upon the glass at the empty road beyond. I had to keep thinking of him as a shape though, because if I let myself study the body I would probably break down and blubber and lose so, so many sponsors. The glaze over the glass of the door was bubbled and tacky to the touch, warped and twisted from the heat blast. This didn’t weaken the glass any which way so, starting to panic slightly, I turned away to try and find another form of escape.

Desperately, I looked around and spied a window on the adjacent wall. I was lucky it didn’t force me to pass the bodies, although my eyes did seem to be dragged back to them without my will. They were blackened and flaky, hair completely burnt off, skin crispy and bubbled. No thread of material still clung to them, and I had to think about how hot the fire must have been to char the flesh that much. I saw glimpses of chalky bone where the flesh had burnt off completely: the hands and chest of the smallest corpse, the knuckles and kneecaps of some of the others. There was even a bit of skull showing on someone’s forehead. I don’t think I’d ever be able to unsee this.

Trying to shake off the thoughts, I stumbled to the window and looked for a latch, head nodding as I struggled to keep it up. I was so very tired, and my body ached all over. I felt like just one giant bruise, and I think I needed about a whole week’s worth of sleep to even remotely feel better.

There was no latch, so I brought up my elbow and pounded into the glass. To my absolute happiness, it shattered, the coloured panels of the schmancy window falling into bisected pieces and clattering over the toes of my thick boots. I wiped away the glass remaining on the sill and the used every last reserve of strength I had to heave myself up and over the sill, face down, feeling my stomach drag over the ridge. I sobbed in pain when I tumbled onto the cement outside, and then rolled onto my feet slowly. I had no idea how, but my backpack had stayed secure on my shoulders through all of that and it was still slung around me, clipped tight at the waist and chest.

I staggered down the street, not knowing how far or how fast I was going, just watching my feet drag against the asphalt and trying not to just fall down and sleep right there. I don’t know how far I got, but I finally stopped when I reached a small building, low-ceilinged and grey with a sturdy wooden door that I had seemingly chosen at random. The shadows were long and dark by the time I leant against the heavy door, but nothing about time was registering with my brain any more. Did the shadows mean it was morning? Had I stumbled through the night? Or was it just nearing the end of this terrible, terrible day? The door was unlocked when I tried the handle, and I practically fell through, catching myself on the little table just inside that was holding a vase full of dead flowers.

The first thing I did was pluck the flowers out and drink the stagnant, gross waster at the bottom of the vase, wiping my mouth on the shaky back of my hand afterwards, before turning again to face down the hall. It looked like another reception area, except in this one, everything was smaller and homier, even though the walls were water-marked and unpainted grey plaster. I only had enough strength to reach the reception desk, stumble around the side and scoot underneath before I curled up and pillowed my head on my arms, not even undoing my pack. I was asleep almost instantly.


	18. I Play Nurse For Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I woke up quickly, sitting up so fast I hit my head on the underside of the desk. I took a few minutes to recover- both from the headache and the dream- until I crawled out from my coop and stood. I don’t think I’d ever been this sore in my life: my thighs ached so bad it felt like someone was slowly serrating the muscle with a rusty knife, my chest burned whenever I moved, my upper arms hurt like twin bitches, my jaw ached, my hip hurt, the gash just below my left knee stung, the cut on my thigh from Rhodo throbbed, the slice on my palm was twinging and my face felt like one giant bruise.

Rhododendron looked at me through the darkness, face puckered and tight, pink burns stretched taut in juxtaposition to the smooth brown of other patches of skin on his body. One of his eyes was a milky white colour, the eyebrow above that eye gone completely, only leaving the naked brow scorched and inflated. Half of his thick, wavy hair had burned away, the rest in scraps across his skull, his scalp burned all away in patches, revealing the stark-white bone of his cranium. His knuckles had broken through the burnt, crispy skin of his hands, and drool was slowly dripping down the side of his ruined mouth were the lips had rucked up from the burn on one side of his once-beautiful mouth, chalky white teeth showing from inside his wet, spoiled maw.

Honeysuckle was next to him, staring darkly at me, chin tilted down to her chest slightly as her hair tumbled freely and thickly down her shoulders, framing her elfin features. Blood ran from the gash on her neck, down over her tarp-like shirt, soaking into her pants and greatcoat. Some of her hair was matted in clumps with something dark and sticky, and when she opened her mouth I saw her tongue had been cut out, and **no** had been carved sharply onto both her cheeks, the cuts weeping and the blood collecting at the point of her chin before dropping to the floor.

Marhkuhs was on Rhododendron’s other side, towering over me, at least a head and a half taller than the Twins, shirt torn so I could see the mess of sinew, muscle and blood that his chest had become. He wasn’t smiling either, blood trickling from the corner of his lips in a tiny stream, bubbles forming in the corner of his mouth. From the hole in his chest I saw shattered ribs poking through muscle, puncturing a still flexing diaphragm, the lungs above it inflating and deflating slowly, membrane stretching pale before darkening to a wet pink when they relaxed. I could also see a fluttering twist of muscle that was thick and slick, slightly blue on one side while a deep healthy red on the other. One of his broken ribs was stuck right through the heart, through the divide of the blue side and red side, and blood trickled in tiny rivers down the sides of the hole as the heart slowly started to die. A thin rope was tied around his wrists as he held them in front of him, tied so tightly that it bit right into his flesh and rubbed it raw, more and more blood streaming to the floor.

They didn’t move towards me, just stood there, faces blank, watching me as I stood frozen in place. There was no air of judgement, they weren’t moving toward me or away. They just were, just staring, and it was just as bad.

Guilt coiled heavily in my belly, and I wanted to scream and cry at them, plead to them that I was sorry, and I tried all I could, and beg for their forgiveness. But I couldn’t, because I _could_ have done more to stop their deaths if I had tried a little harder. It wasn’t completely my fault, but I wasn’t totally innocent either.

So I just stood there, knees buckling under the weight of my guilt and shame. After a while it was like a switch had turned on, and told them to die- again. They started whimpering, crying, Marhkuhs and Rhodo’s voices high and sobbing, Honeysuckle’s deep and guttural because her tongue had been cut out. Rhodo collapsed to his knees, head bent back in anguish when he screamed like he was being burned alive with no fire in sight, while Honey brought her hands up to her neck and choked, drowning in her own blood as it ran into her windpipe, rasping cries being cut off into a gargle as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Marhkuhs froze in place as his abnormally long legs locked at the knees, and brought his tied hands up to his chest as if to stop or protect himself from the pain, and I saw his heart thundering faster, trying to compensate for the fact that it was dying.

At the same time all three of them reached out to me, Rhodo and Honey extending their left arms whilst Marhkuhs was forced to stretch both, palms out, pleading for help. Honeysuckle’s palm was covered in blood. It was a plea for aid, and I couldn’t do anything. Their cries grew louder and more desperate. I screwed my eyes shut tight against the noise. I was helpless, a scared little orphan boy who was too cowardly to help his friends. Their wails pitched into animalistic howls of pain, and I still did nothing. I was useless.

 ----

I woke up quickly, sitting up so fast I hit my head on the underside of the desk. I took a few minutes to recover- both from the headache and the dream- until I crawled out from my coop and stood. I don’t think I’d ever been this sore in my life: my thighs ached so bad it felt like someone was slowly serrating the muscle with a rusty knife, my chest burned whenever I moved, my upper arms hurt like twin bitches, my jaw ached, my hip hurt, the gash just below my left knee stung, the cut on my thigh from Rhodo throbbed, the slice on my palm was twinging and my face felt like one giant bruise.

I realised that last night I had missed the death count in the sky. I had fallen asleep before the sun had actually set, and I didn’t know whether to feel pathetic or pretty okay with that because I had had a hard day yesterday. What I did feel was guilty, because I didn’t get to pay homage or even think nice thoughts up to the children in the sky, didn’t even say thank you to the six who had perished yesterday. Wow. Six Tributes had died yesterday, which, since we had had about two or three days of nothing, was a huge death count; and I got to witness every moment of it. Hoorah.

Putting it out of my mind, I decided to inspect the damage, so I shucked off my pants and greatcoat gently, sitting back on the cold floor in only my thin underclothes and my tight shirt, trying to ignore the stage-fright that had just hit me. Tell you what; I was glad these underclothes were elastic because a lot of the weight I had come into the arena with had dropped off. I just had to pretend that no one was watching me, like there weren’t a billion cameras on me right now.

I inspected my legs first. I had a yellowing bruise on my hip from slipping and falling on the rooftop (twice) that hurt, but wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I had a flowering purple and blue shiner on my right knee from my gallant leap over the roof which twinged when I poked it but didn’t really bother me when I left it alone. There was a small laceration on my thigh from where Rhododendron had stabbed me, and it was a little sore, but no biggie. The cut on my left knee worried me the most; it had been deeper than I had originally thought, and now the skin around it was reddening around the edges and it was going pussy and yellow on the inside as well as a maroon-y colour in the middle. I didn’t know what that meant, but it couldn’t be good. I had few tiny cuts and grazes from just general things like broken glass or cement, so they didn’t really bother me. It was the slash on my shin I had to look out for.

I had to take off my shirt off so I could inspect the damage underneath. I tried to peel it off carefully, but wouldn’t come off without a fight, and it was almost too tempting to cut it off with my non-existent knife except that I didn’t want to run around half-naked for the rest of the Games. Blood had dried it in places to my skin, and I had to reach around and grab my collar on the back of my neck and yank it over my head in one swift pull to get it off fast, like pulling off a bandaid.

Once it was off and learning its lesson from where I had thrown it in the corner, I got to inspect my arms and torso. I had a myriad of little cuts and grazes across my arms, and my fingernails were torn, the beds bloody and dirt caking underneath.  The cut from the sword on my left palm was still ragged, but at least it was healing. My stomach had a slight peppering of cuts on it as well, and some light bruising, nothing too serious. I had a thin scratch down my chest that was more of a line than anything, and a few grazes across my stomach which I guess were from jumping (okay, falling) through that window yesterday.

I really wanted to get clean. Which was a surprise, because when I was at the community home I actively opposed having baths and anything to do with cleaning myself beyond washing my hands. But the point was that right now I just wanted a sponge or a rag to just wash the blood off my body, especially my face, and maybe find something to bandage my leg with. Antiseptic would be helpful, too.

The nearest source of what-I-presumed-was-safe water that I knew of was somewhere back out in suburbia. There was a little creek that ran through a small wooded area I had passed on the first day of the Games that hadn’t looked too dirty, just a few little bugs skating along the top and some algae growing near the banks. Even if I wanted to trek out all that way for a bath, I don’t even think I could. My legs ached too much, and the best plan I could come up with for now was to stay hidden until I recovered enough to fight again. At the rate I was now, another Tribute could just come in and push me over and stand on my neck until I suffocated, I was that weak.

I dragged my pants slowly back on, noting as I did so how prominent my hip bones were now, how little meat was even on my calves. I slowly laced up my boots, spitting out a curse when I couldn’t tie the bow properly the first time, and then crawled over to where my shirt was, refusing to acknowledge the pain that it caused because the shirt had deserved its far-off banishment. Before I put it on, though, I fumbled at my throat and pulled the necklace up to eyesight.

I had almost forgotten I was wearing it. Even in the dim light, the silver gleamed, the tiny inscribed _A. L._ hard to see. My arm felt clumsy and heavy, almost too heavy to hold up. I closed my eyes and pressed the disc against my mouth, fingers skating over the big scab on my lip, fumbling clumsily against my lips as I practically inhaled the locket, trying to even get a sense of home. I suddenly felt terribly, terribly homesick. Not for the adults, not for the bulky, busy, chattering people of District Seven who beat me when I did wrong without even telling me why, who ignored kids like me in the street and decided that they hated me most. No, not for the adults. I was homesick for the order of Seven, the tall trees that were in your vision no matter which direction you turned, the boys who I shared a dorm with every night where we whispered secrets and jokes, the smiling girls of the community home who giggled and flirted, the smell of pine with every breath you took.

There was no smell of pine here. Marhkuhs had never smelt pine, in all of his eighteen years, and if I ever got home I was going to make sure the scent was permanently plugged into my nose.

I took a shuddering breath, my hand shaking, and I could feel the necklace ticking against my teeth and lip, tiny spikes of pain blipping through the scab on the side of my mouth. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home so much I almost started crying right there, and the only thing that stopped me was the thought that a million cameras must be on me right that second. There were only eight of us left now, so unless the others were engaged in fighting or hunting or some other interesting activity, I was bound to be on camera.

 ----

After I had gotten dressed again, I realised I had lost my scarf sometime yesterday. It wasn’t a big loss, and I wasn’t too worried, but it did bring the thought of Marhkuhs’ hideout to mind. The only ones who had known it had been inhabited besides myself were dead, and Marhkuhs had told me himself he had a ton of food left, so that might be the place to be right now. Even if it meant bunking with a dead kid.

It took me a while, but eventually I made it to the door of the building I was currently camped out in. This place was dreary, all grey walls and plain wooden doors, and it reminded me of the funeral home back in Seven. Man, these places really knew how to put the fun in funeral, don’t they? There was even a picture of a shadowy-eyed man on the wall behind the desk that I hadn’t noticed in the rush of last night. In the painting, his emancipated form was nailed to some kind of giant cross, nails through both his hands and just one driving through both his feet, one foot on top of the other. His side was cut open and bleeding, a circlet of thorns seated crookedly on his bowed head. But, ironically, there was a light, a halo, maybe, around the crown of his head, even though his body was slumped as if in defeat. It was all pretty morbid, if you asked me.

Once I had walked outside and dismissed the martyr from my mind, it was pretty clear that my body just wanted me to lie down and die. I was using the wall heavily as support, and I was already out of breath. I needed help.

And then, of course, it clicked. I had help. I needed only to ask for it.

I tipped my neck back so my head was facing the sky. I took in another shaky breath and shut my eyes against the harsh light of the pale grey sky, the sun lighting up the pearly clouds from behind. “Help me,” I croaked, hoping someone would hear me. “I’m in pain,” I whimpered louder.

I only waited a minute or so before I forced my head back down, opening my eyes now I faced the ground. I let my eyes adjust to the light and then look around. And, sure enough, success! A parachute was gliding down gently towards me, and I would have jumped around in happiness if I could move.

I begrudgingly took the parachute and its contents back into the building I had just exited, but only getting as far as inside the door, opting the sit with my back against the entrance as I examined the goodies I had been sent.

Now, as far as I knew, Rowan was directing my sponsors and what I got sent, so it could be anything from a sheet of paper saying ‘suck it up, buttercup’ in dyslexic crayon or a whole first aid kit fit for the President.

I, with some hesitancy, opened the (kind of heavy) box attached to the parachute and sighed in happiness. I would have done something with more jubilance except I hurt, like, everywhere. I’m pathetic, I know.

Inside the box was, indeed, a full first aid kit. There was a small box of painkiller pills, a bottle of whiskey-coloured antiseptic, one whole box of skin-coloured bandaids, two rolls of soft white bandages, a roll of papery white tape and some clips to go with the bandages. There was also, tucked away to the side and looking out of place, a small snap-locked bag of... I couldn’t believe it. There was a cookie inside the bag. A cookie.

A cookie.

I stared at the clear plastic bag, holding it in front of my eyes, just gazing at the piece of food, incredulous. I mean, I had never seen this before. Why was there a cookie in my med kit? Was it filled with anaesthetic? Would it put me to sleep if I ate it? I'm pretty sure I could see chunks of chocolate in it, too, and damn, my stomach was going to climb right out of my throat and eat the treat itself if I didn’t cram that biscuit in my mouth sometime in the very near future.

It took me another moment, but I realised there was writing on the snap-lock bag dangling in front of my eyes. It was written in blue marker, in a hand that was messy and a little slanted. It took me a while to read it, and I had to sound out some words (so sue me, I was no scholar), but eventually I saw that it read; **Isaac, this here is a gift from your sponsors. Some very nice girls came to me and asked that I would send this to you. I’ve had it tested, and it’s completely edible. It only cost you a few extra dollars. Enjoy the biscuit. Have fun. Rowan.**

He spent some of my sponsor money to send me a _cookie_?! Oh man, this cookie better be the best one in the world, because if it wasn’t, I was going to climb out of that TV and strangle him myself.

I decided I would eat the cookie later. I took two painkiller pills (there was a note on the box that was practically a taunt, saying even if I took all the pills at once they wouldn’t kill me), swallowing them with only a bit of effort, and then waited for them to kick in. Once I felt like I could walk, I stood, revelled in the reduced (but not totally gone) pain, and trudged out the door.

I wasn’t really thinking about the way I was headed truly: the only brief through in my head about safety on the road was to avoid the Cornucopia at the city centre. After maybe twenty minutes of slow walking, I rounded a corner and trudged down a broad road that seemed somewhat memorable, but I really couldn’t pick up why there was a tickling of familiarity at the back of my head. I got maybe twenty metres down the lined district when glass crunched under the heavy soles of my boots, and I stopped to inspect it. There were shards of glass scattered widely down the long stretch of road, and my heart lurched, though I didn’t know why at that exact moment. I frowned, and slowly it pieced together in my head. Glancing to the sides confirmed it, and, sure enough, there were the mannequins, standing eerily still in the shattered shopfronts like they had been when we had first run up the road. Both were still complete, one with the ugly orange soccer-dad sweater vest and jaunty hat, the other flaunting a plain black summer dress and turquoise necklace. Both were still as statues, skin still pale as paper, faces still blank and bare. The only detail that marked them for having killed a boy yesterday was the blood and viscera staining up their white arms and flecked across their bodies.

I stood, frozen, waiting for them to move. There was no way in hell I’d be able to outrun them this time, I just didn’t have it in me. A cold, stinking wind whipped up through the street, blowing through my curls, flapping my jacket around my thighs, the aglets of my laces tapping on my boots as I stared, dumbstruck, at the dummies. But the didn’t move, so after a few minutes of just watching the black dress waft gently around the most-likely-women one’s shins, I bolted, not looking back, definitely not looking down the other end of the street where the glass doors were painted crimson.

When I say bolted, I really meant stumbled awkwardly as fast as I could. I still wasn’t up for running, and as soon as I rounded the corner of the same alley we had emerged from yesterday (was it only yesterday? Ay caramba!)and I checked nothing was chasing me (like I would have made it to the alley if there was), I slowed the heck down to a walk again and just tried to keep moving, let alone at any kind of speed other than slow.

It took me two hours to finally find Marhkuhs’ house again after that. I got a little lost seeing as I sprinted most of the way yesterday and I wasn’t really paying attention to what corners I turned or what streets I passed, but I made it there in the end. I would never have guessed that there’d be so many dead ends in a single city, though.

The whole time I was journeying, the sky was a pearly sheen of grey, stretching from one end of the fishbowl to the other, and the temperature was just cool enough that I chose to keep my coat on, but warm enough that there was a light coating of sweat on my forehead by the time I finally arrived.

The side door was still open and gaping from where Marhkuhs had thrown it open yesterday. I eased it carefully shut before stepping back into the darkness, hearing the slight puff my feet made when I put them down onto the dusty floor. I was panting when I reached the room we had stayed in; Gerrad Powers was exactly where we left him, as was the rubbish from my feast the other night and the water tank. There was a rut in the dust towards the middle of the floor where I remembered Marhkuhs sleeping, and another one a few metres away, where I had slept. Footprints scattered the floor, and shafts of pale light peered in through the boarded windows and making bars of white-on-grey on the floor.

I stood beside the marks where Marhkuhs had curled up on the floor the other night, staring at the single large, wonky handprint in the dust right next to where he had slept. This was all that was physically left of Marhkuhs in this room. A handprint in the dust. And if that didn’t mean something, I didn’t know what did.

A few minutes later, I took a shaky breath in and shook my head, rattling my brain to quell the emotion inside me. I needed to focus. There were only eight of us left, now, and I had to be vigilant. Five Monster Tributes remained, though none of them had District partners anymore. In fact, none of us had a District partner any longer.

There was also the girl from Eight, who I was surprised to find lasted this long. From what I recalled of her, which wasn’t much, she was slightly on the porky side and had long black hair which had been curled and piled up on top of her head on Interview Night. I wouldn’t have thought she’d had made it this far, especially with how boring and skittish she had been whenever I had happened to look in her direction. Surely no one could support her when she was like that. Or, had that been her plan all along? Act like the weakling and then bust a move when your competitors didn’t even remember you existed? If this was true, then that was complexity right there. It struck me that maybe people came into this thing with a plan other than _stay alive_.

And then, of course, there was Jonathan. I wondered what he was doing, where he was, if he had enough food to eat. I’d heard you did desperate things when you were starving. He was the last of my little posse that I had left, but I guess that didn’t mean much anymore.  I had what little faith I had in our group when we had met up with Gracewyn... yesterday. Wow. So much had happened yesterday. I wondered if Jonathan’s plan was just _stay alive_ , or if he had something else up his sleeve.

I needed to clean my wounds, so I decided to put that in the front of my mind. I went to find a clean spot on the floor to start cleaning and sanitizing my boo-boos, but I ended up walking in a circle. There was no place that was appropriate for me to sit without getting covered in dust, so I ended up chewing on my lip, the strap of my backpack loosely help in my hand as I slouched in the centre of the room, trying to figure out what to do.

An idea came to mind when I eyed Gerrad Powers’ body. Well. His jacket. And then I thought _suck it up, Isaac, you don’t have another option_ and walked over to the dead youth, deftly stripping off his coat. I patted down the coat hurriedly and ripped my hand away when I felt a small lump in the fabric, letting the heavy clothing drop to the floor. I sighed at my idiocy and slowly lifted the coat again, feeling around for the same bulge. When I found it I dipped my hand into the corresponding pocket and pulled out a round silver capsule about the size of my palm. There was a button on the top, and when I pushed it, the pod split in half revealing a clock face on the thicker side and a picture of three people on the other. It was Gerrad when he was alive, and he was beaming, seated between a dark haired man with a huge moustache and a plump woman with a lipsticked mouth and golden hair. I held the ornate fob watch up to my ear and listened curiously, smiling when I heard the telltale _tick-tock_ of the mechanism inside. It took me a while, but I read the time eventually. I didn’t even know if it was right, but the clock said it was a little past midday.

I debated the idea of keeping the locket but ultimately decided against it as telling the time wouldn’t really give me any advantage overall and also that this was obviously Gerrad’s District token, and I couldn’t be the asshole that took it. I ignored the wailing muscles in my thighs and crouched beside the dead boy, carefully balancing the token on his chest. He looked even smaller and more fragile without the bulky coat on, his face a shade of greyish-white that reminded me of the underbelly of a fish, a great purpling bruise on his temple just beginning to fade, scarlet blood still crusty under his nose and on his mouth.

Before anything, I went back to the front door with the coat slung over my arm and found a large shard of glass from where Marhkuhs had smashed the panels on the door when he broke in some time ago. I used the tool to snick an incision into the jacket and then rip a big piece of thick cloth from the coat and stuff it in my pocket. Then I dumped the glass and went back to the main room, to the side nearer to the water barrel and furthest away from Gerrad’s body. I used his coat as a broom, shuffling around part of the room on my knees as I pushed the coat along in front of me, being careful not to put weight of the big cut on my shin as I swept the dust along in bouts. Soon enough, the coat was covered in thick grey dust and I had a generous portion of floor relatively clean. In any case, I deemed it good enough for me as I dumped my pack and got to work.

I threw the coat across the room, as far away as I could, and then dragged the water barrel over to my little patch of paradise. It was still marginally full, so I pulled my canteen out of my pack where it was on the floor and took a long drink before filling it up to the top again. Then I tucked in back away in my bag, exchanging it for the first aid kit and sat us both down by the water barrel, pulling the cloth I had cut from Gerrad’s coat out of my pocket, stripping down into my underclothes once again after. I slid a finger under the waistband of my undershorts and tested the elasticity of the waistline, contentedly finding that it was still able to snap soundly back into place.

I wet the cloth and got to work from my feet up, dabbing in places and scrubbing in others to get the worst of the blood and dirt off my skin. It was painful and slow, and I had to keep stopping to rinse off the cloth, and my breathing was haggard by the time I reached my biceps. I rubbed at my neck softly, arching it so I could get to it fully but wincing whenever I skated over a bruise or scab. My jaw where Marhkuhs had punched me was painful to even touch, but I could feel the crusty dried blood around my mouth and I had a great _need_ to get it off. I ended up bearing five minuted of dabbing and hissing and by the end I had tears in my eyes, but I had _endured_. I wondered if there would be enough water left in the end to dunk my head in a few times. My curls were crusted with dirt and blood and _stuff_ \- I really didn’t even want to know.

               Once I was clean(ish), I inspected my body again as I plucked the antiseptic out of the first aid kit. I was still tanned, maybe not as dark as I had been but still not my normal paleness, though it was comforting to till see the freckles dotting my arms. My legs were thinner and wirier than I remember, and as I ran my hand through the soft, curly black hairs on my thighs I felt a lot less meat on them. They barely jiggled at all. That had to be unhealthy.  Even my butt felt closer to the floor, like there were fewer layers supporting it, but maybe that was just my paranoia. I scratched lightly at my left calf, remembering the phantom injury I had dreamt about, patting the skin to reassure myself my calf was still in one piece. I dragged my fingers down up ribs, feeling each curve of the bone easily, even under the supposed meat of my pectorals. My collarbone was sharp and pronounced under my skin and, coupled with the lines of the tendons in my neck, made a little hollow at the base of my throat that had always been present but now was more distinct and deep. My hipbones were jutting and prominent, disappearing into my underclothes, looking awfully sharp and fragile. And it was only going to get worse as the Games went on.

I began applying antiseptic to the bigger cuts, cringing and cussing when it stung but accepting the slow burning pain in the knowledge that this will help, _this will help_. By the time I was done I sounded like one of the steam trains that sometimes came through District Seven to collect or deliver goods, hissing in an almost constant stream, broken only by gasps and laboured breaths and swear words. It smelt sharp and made my nose wrinkle. The medicine had made my skin an ugly orange colour on and around the cuts, and when mixed with the red and mauve and yellow of the gash on my left knee it was positively ghastly.

I bandaged my knee, smiling smugly when I covered the ugly orange-yellow-red skin and cut under soft white fabric, pinning it up with one of the little clawed clips and putting tape over the top and bottom just to be sure. I didn’t even know what the papery tape was for, but this seemed like a pretty good use for it.

I also opened the pack of bandaids and used almost all of them on the little cuts all over my legs and arms and torso. Soon I was surrounded by empty wrappers that I had tossed to the floor and was definitely not looking forward to taking the bandaids off when the time came, but I deemed them a necessary evil.

After I was finished, I poured a little more water onto my hands and tried to rub the orange out of my fingers, succeeding a little, the colour fading to that of a ruddy peach, the tips of my fingers turning red from the friction, but the orange staining the beds of my nails and refusing to lighten. I ignored the desire to rid myself of the offending colour after that; it was a trivial want I couldn’t afford to fulfil. I also decided to bypass the wish to wash my hair because it was ultimately a waste and I was sure I'd regret it later when I ran out of clean water.

Scratching my exposed stomach, I rolled to my knees and listened to my belly growl. I deemed that now was a perfect time to eat that cookie so I took it gingerly out of the snap-lock bag and sniffed it. It smelt good and when I nibbled a corner it tasted even better. It was finished in two bites and I was very sad to say it was not worth spending points on. It was a good cookie but after eating it I felt even hungrier, so I pawed at my flat tummy as I looked around for more food.

I knew there was nothing in my pack, and the flat, crinkled packets from the food I ate the other day that were still on the floor were empty. But they also reminded me that Marhkuhs said there was food in the other room and “ _a ton of it_ ”, apparently. So, still almost-naked, I made my way over to the closed door on the one side of the room I hadn’t been allowed in and eased it open. The door creaked and I frowned at it as I walked through. It was another room like the one I had just left; the only marginal difference was the lack of a door leading to the outside. Boarded windows lined the wall and the floor was marred with only one set of footprints that came into the room through the doorframe I was currently standing under to pace the wall, seemingly several times before returning.

There were no provisions in here. I frowned again, this time in confusion and my eyes panned the dusty floor for anything edible. But there was nothing. No boxes, no tins, not even any empty packets to show that Marhkuhs had eaten something like he said. My confusion deepened as I followed his footsteps, scanning the floor with a narrowed gaze for _anything_. But there was nothing here but dust and footprints.

Disappointed and as confused as heck, I returned to the other room in defeat. Trying to please my complaining stomach I drank some water, wiping my chin with my hand once I was finished to catch the drops that had missed my mouth. It did appease my stomach’s rumblings a little, but I knew that if I didn’t find something to eat soon I'd be in trouble. I sighed and, chewing on my lip as I did so, I put my shirt back on over my head, tucking the necklace in through the neckline so it wouldn’t swing around and distract me. I jumped around a bit to put my pants back on and buckled them over my shirt before pulling on my socks and boots, tucking the ends of my pant legs into the shoes just like Celestial had six days ago. Had it only been six days? Yikes, it feels like it’s been years since that awful morning where I had risen up on a metal plate and gotten blood splattered all over me.

From that through I looked down and sighed as I found the blood from District Three girl hadn’t miraculously dissolved into the air and was still staining the right side of my coat and pants. I scratched at it but it didn’t come out and I knew I had better things to do with my time so I left it. It’s not like I could get it out anyway. I had a shirt back home in Seven that had blood dribbled all down the front from where I busted a lip from attacking someone’s fist with my face and, no matter how hard I scrubbed it while Mrs Ferwere cawed in my ear, it would not come clean. I presumed it would be the same with the clothes I was wearing now, so I gave up. There was no point fighting a losing battle.

I snorted at the irony of that thought and took another drink of water just to have something to do while I figured out my next step. Personally, I didn’t want to bunk with a dead kid for another night, so the decision to leave sounded like a good one. But to where? In total, there were eight kids left, and I'd bet my money that most of them were in the city, not in the outer suburbs. If Marhkuhs was correct in his assumptions, there were still four Tributes left in the Kill Squad who would be combing the place for the boy from Three, the girl from Eight, Jonathan Everdeen from Twelve and me. No District still had a pair of Tributes in the Games, and I would say it was anyone’s game if I knew whether Team Doom were still together or not. For all I knew, they may have broken up and tried to kill each other (please please please) or are currently doing it at this very moment (again, please please please).

I deduced that if what I reasoned was correct and that there would be more Tributes within the city than out, then I should get out if my plan was to stay out of the fire and hope everyone killed each other while I watched from the sidelines. But was that my plan? The Gamemakers definitely wouldn’t allow that and probably force me to fight by chasing me into the city right into a pack of other Tributes. So I should probably scratch that plan.

Plan B was to remain in the city and totally pretend to be looking for Tributes while in reality try to stay as far away as everyone else as I could. I figured I could do that- if I could act like me and Gabriella were buds, then I could pretend to be a bloodthirsty seventeen-year-old hunting down other kids.

I took some more painkillers before I put the first aid kit back into my pack on top of the compass and torch, swallowing them with another mouthful of water to make the going down easier. I then refilled my bottle one last time since the tank’s water level was low- so low, in fact, that I had to tip the tank forward towards the nozzle to get the last droplets out- and then let my canteen join the med kit in my bag.

I didn’t shut the door after I left, just kept on walking, head up and eyes darting for anything living and I purposefully strode into the park. The sky was a cloudy grey and I could smell rain in the charged air as the wind blew hard around my head. I veered off the path to the left, instead of following where I had always come and gone to the right, and ducked down a broad gap between some buildings. At the edge I stopped and peered around the corner, watching both sides of the streets and continuing on my way to nowhere when I saw it was clear.

A light drizzling of rain began after about half an hour, but it wasn’t hard enough for me to seek shelter, just enough for me to lower my head and continue against the sprinkle. The wind whipped water droplets around, making my face wet even though it was ducked so my chin was touching my chest.

I continued like that till sundown, whip clenched in my hand as I stalked around the city until the shadows were long and the sky was turning mauve. The wind and rain had ensured that I was cold and some of the longer wet curls from my head repeatedly slapped my forehead to remind me how soaking I actually was. I hadn’t seen the sun, even the glaring light shining through the clouds, since it disappeared behind the rows of buildings arching into the sky, but I assumed it must be hitting the edge of the horizon right about now.

I began to jog as quietly as I could down the street in search of shelter for the night as the rain became harder and more consistent as it poured. As far as I knew, no one had died today and I wasn’t doubtful that the Gamemakers may set something up for people wandering in the dark and rain. The idea was certainly frightening enough for me to try all the doors leading into the buildings I passed only to find them without handles or knobs or even door-and-window-less until the third floor.

The anthem blared and I ran faster now, more uncaring of the noise I was making under the guise of the rattling music. Blue light from the Capitol emblem lit the street, causing me to duck for the shadows just in case anyone was watching. I slid along the wall to the closest door until I had my back to it. I shoved an arm behind me, scrabbling for the knob as I looked both ways up the street, searching for predators. Rain blew into my eyes and I blinked rapidly, cursing the stinging pain. I rattled the doorknob and, to my happy surprise, the door opened without a sound and I turned, sliding through and shutting the door as quietly as I could.

I stood still on the threshold and dripped for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the rain hitting the roof of the building, before I fumbled my way down the hall to an empty doorframe where I tip-toed out to what looked like a quaint little diner. Booths were set up along the windowed wall and a few stools faced the counter, which I was currently standing behind. There was a space missing in the counter almost directly in front of me, wide enough to probably fit a person front-on or two people if they shuffled through sideways, but the tabletop of the counter continued across it. I presumed that it would flip up on a hinge connected to one of the sides and that that was how people would go to either side of the counter. It seems that, if I had travelled further down the street outside, I would have found the twin glass doors that were the ‘public’ entry to this place, but I didn’t know if that was even unlocked. Everything was washed in the blue light of outside so I couldn’t tell its actual colour, but only for a moment before the light disappeared altogether and the anthem faded out into the empty necropolis and I was left alone in the dark.


	19. A Little Slice of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As my fingers touched the cold metal barrel of the flashlight, there was a wet, hacking cough from somewhere to my right, loud enough to be heard clearly above the rain, and instinct kicked in as I dove to the ground with a loud thump as something followed the cough and splattered to the floor.
> 
> Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

I unclipped my bag and swung it around on one shoulder to my chest, unzipping it so I could grab my torch from where it was buried at the bottom. The previous nights in the Arena I'd had either moonlight to see by or I was asleep before I'd even thought about how I'd see in the dark. Tonight, there wasn’t even any moonlight to shine through the windows as a source to show me around, so thank heavens I had my torch. The tall buildings made sure no light from the fake white orb in the sky even got to the windows, if it could even shine through the rainclouds.

As my fingers touched the cold metal barrel of the flashlight, there was a wet, hacking cough from somewhere to my right, loud enough to be heard clearly above the rain, and instinct kicked in as I dove to the ground with a loud thump as something followed the cough and splattered to the floor.

Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

I succeeded in snatching my torch and reset my bag onto my shoulders. I got to my knees and crawled through the gap in the counter, uncoiling my whip as I did so. I had no idea what I was doing. I should be heading away from whatever was in here with me, back out into the street, but the thing possessing me right now wanted a look before I high-tailed it out of there.

I poked my head around the edge of the counter but, of course, it was too dark to see anything besides a mass of black that was slightly darker than the surrounding gloom. I wriggled into a crouching position and crept awkwardly around the corner, holding my breath as I pointed the torch towards the mass. I got ready to run as I slid my thumb over the on/off button, still holding my breath, ready to move out of there as soon as I saw what it was. There was no option of sneaking a peek as I needed to turn on the flashlight, so I needed to bolt fast as soon as I got a glimpse because it would know I was here as well. The thing coughed again, but this time there was no splattering sound, although the cough went on for longer, the wet hacking sound residing from deep within whatever was making it. It sounded painful.

I let go of my breath, but before I could press the button a giant thunder crash boomed and I startled so much I squeezed the button before I even realised what had happened. The light was bright and yellow and it made me blink hard for a few seconds at the sudden glare. I stiffened, leaning back on my heels, when all of a sudden my vision cleared and I saw someone just lying on their side on the ground, twisted away from me so all I could see was their trailing coat and arms cradled about their head. There was blood and... _stuff_ on the floor surrounding the Tribute, splattered randomly around in pools and smears across the floor. The person was practically rolling in it. Well, they would be, if they were moving. The only animated part of them was their shakily expanding chest and twitching fingers. Something bright glinted in the torchlight slightly to the side of the Tribute, and it took me a moment to realise it was a fine dagger.

They obviously wouldn’t be attacking me or anyone else any time soon, so I moved closer, and only after I was squinting and the blood-smeared hand did I recognise the olive-toned skin on the long-fingered hands.

“Jonathan?” I called, dropping the light and kneeling next to him, grabbing the shoulder of the Tribute and rolling him onto his back. As soon as I did so, Jonathan (because it _was_ him) retched, choking on whatever was in his mouth, heaving against the floor in spasms until he rolled towards me even more to be lying on his side and vomited more of the thin, watery blood onto the linoleum surface beside my shin, making the same splattering noise that I heard when I first arrived. I watched, horrifically stunned, as he hiccoughed, wiping his hand across his mouth to succeed in only smearing more blood across his mouth and hand.

“Jonathan?” I asked again, more hesitantly. Thunder boomed and his eyes flickered, though I’m not sure if it was in response to me or the weather. Harsh, grated breaths were coming out of his mouth as he pushed up off the floor, arms shaking with the effort, fingers sliding through the muck and viscera on the ground. He took another rasping breath and then opened his eyes with what looked like a lot of effort. They were unfocused at first, but only after a little while did Jonathan finally manage to centre his gaze onto my face. His eyes were almost yellow in the torchlight, shining bright and glazed with pain.

Blood dribbled from his mouth as he pitched forward, and I held his shoulders to heave him upright. If I wasn’t terrified already I was when he _giggled_ as I pushed him back into sitting position. A bubble of blood inflated in the corner of his mouth, and whatever thoughts I'd had about using the first aid kit in my pack disappeared to be replaced with the question of how much blood someone could lose before they died.

“Hey,” I moved one of my hands to cup his jaw and stop his head lolling to the side. I jerked his chin to face me. “Jonathan,” I barked. His eyes rolled for a second before they fixed onto me and he smiled, showing me his scarlet mouth, even his teeth stained pink with blood.

“Isaac!” My name was said happily but his joy was cut off when he started coughing again. He held a hand in front of his mouth and coughed into that, but taking it away sooner than the other two times he’d had a coughing fit. The skin of his face was clammy where I was touching it, dried blood smeared across his mouth and most of his jaw, sweat beading his forehead.

“You’re here Isaac!” He continued, and I didn't know what to do. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open for long, let alone support his own weight. He was delusional, babbling about how I was expected a while ago, and now all that we had to do was wait for Gracewyn to finally arrive, punctuating his halted sentences with spasms where his body would jerk violently, one fierce twitch for each spasm, and little coughs. I wondered what had done this to him. A thought came to mind that had my heart sinking.

“Jonathan,” I interrupted his flow of gibberish and he faded off, eyes closing and head relaxing into my palm before I tapped his cheek sharply with my thumb to bring him back to me. “Jonathan,” I said only when I knew I had his attention. “Did you eat anything strange?”

His brow creased. “I... I haven’t eaten for a while,” He murmured, turning his head so I could feel his lips moving against my palm. “But I don’t think I had anything _strange_...” he trailed off.

I thought it through. “What about anything left out? Did you find any food, Jonathan? Did you eat anything that wasn’t packaged?”

“I...” he seemed to rouse himself, eyes fixing on a point somewhere near my shoulder. “I think I had some bread I found... I didn’t eat much, though, tasted sharp... But that was ages ago.”

“How long?” I shook him when he started to zone out and he snapped back to reality.

“Um,” He swallowed and then choked and I had to release him so he could expel a string of red spittle onto the floor. While my hands were free I scooted around to kneel behind him, sweeping the dagger behind me, and tore my jacket off, throwing it up onto the bench so I had less restriction of my arms and, when he was done, guided him by his shoulders so he was laying half on my lap, twisted slightly onto his side so he didn’t choke on all that blood building up in his system. “About four days ago?” he finally got out, breaths rattling. The only thing that was getting better about this situation was that he was more coherent, still struggling to speak but seeming to know what’s going on more than before.

“You haven’t eaten for four days?” I was scandalised. The thought of not eating for longer than a day was horrifying.

He whined and shook his head at the thought. “I’m still full. I couldn’t imagine eating anything else. My belly feels sloshy,”

That’s when it hit me. I mean, really hit me, barging straight through me like an unstoppable ghost train and I was shackled to the tracks. I shut my eyes and tried to stop myself from doing anything girly like stroking his hair off his sweaty forehead or something to comfort him, because Jonathan was dying. But not only dying. By the looks of the amount of blood around and from what I knew (which wasn’t much) about poison, Jonathan wouldn’t survive to tomorrow night.

I shuddered, trying to gain control over myself. If I freaked out now or gave in to my emotions I would do nothing productive. I’d probably just bawl and cry and scream at the world for the pain to stop, to stop hurting everyone, to just _let us be_. And I couldn’t do that, not when there were so few of us left and I needed to do all I could to survive. So I chased the scary ball of emotion threatening to snowball into full-scale panic in my head and grappled with it, tackling it to the ground and tying it up with paper and a string, putting that parcel in a hole, filling the hole with cement, unceremoniously dumping a desert on top and locking it all away behind a steel door with a lock even I couldn’t pick. I detached myself from my confusing, edgy emotions and then looked down at the boy dying in my lap with only the base feelings- and yet something still ached in my heart.

“Okay,” I answered him, and he nodded into the crook of my elbow, pushing his face into my skin like a cat. A ghostly hand reached into my chest and plucked hard at my heartstrings, and for a moment I wanted to leap up and run as far away from here as I could to escape the pain that would surely result. I don’t know how many more deaths I could handle, and Jonathan’s- Jonathan’s would be the worst.

We stayed like that for a while, him breathing laboriously and coughing occasionally while I just knelt there, trying to avoid kneeling in the worst of the icky stuff on the ground. Because it wasn’t all just blood, let me tell you. I felt my heart sink right through the floor as I squinted in the dim light of the torch at a puddle of the grossness near to me, seeing blood, some sort of clear fluid and some viscera- a thin membrane floating on top of the half-inch of dilute liquid that could mean nothing good. Jonathan wasn’t just coughing up blood; he was coughing up _bodily tissue_. The poison in him was eating him away from the inside, unknitting layer upon layer of muscle, organ and sinew.

“Isaac?” Jonathan murmured into my skin. I’d been dozing and so the tickling on my forearm startled me a little but not enough to jump or dislodge him or anything. I rolled my lips between my teeth and took a deep breath in through my nose before I responded. I didn’t even have to ask myself what I was doing here, really- Jonathan was, honestly, one of my closest friends. I couldn’t leave him to die alone.

“Yeah?” I answered softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet. The slight storm had passed over and now the only sound apart from our breathing was the drumming of the rain above our heads.

“How long are you staying?” His eyes fluttered open and he turned his head so he was looking up at me from my lap. His eyes were still gold even in the muted torchlight, framed by lashes that were as dark as inkblots, bags smudged with purple sitting heavily under his eyes. I wondered what colour his irises were when he was in District Twelve, what colour he classified them as, which parent he’d inherited them from.

“As long as it takes,” I said without thinking, and immediately I hoped he didn’t understand me, hoped he didn’t hear me, hoped that maybe he took it to mean until he got better. But I saw his forehead crinkle into a slight frown for a moment before smoothing out again and he stared at me for a long time before opening his bloodstained lips once more.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

I took in a sharp breath, but the denial faded on the tip of my tongue. He was looking more serious than I'd ever seen him. All dregs of the fever-induced babble I had found him in were gone and his gaze was steady enough for me to not even try to lie.

But I couldn’t answer him. How did you tell someone that, yes, they were dying? How did you even nod in answer to the question? So all I could do was just stare at him, my brown eyes locked with his clear, opalescent, golden ones, and remain silent.

After what felt like an age, his eyes fluttered shut again and my gut clenched hard as a whimper caught in his throat. There was a tear glittering in the yellow torchlight on the end of his ridiculously long lashes, and my own lips trembled as it dropped to the floor.

“I don’t want-” Jonathan started, but a cough interrupted and he spent the next minute choking up more blood onto the floor. I reached out a hand the soothe him, but he flinched away from my touch as soon as my fingers brushed his back. A heavy weight settled in the bottom of my stomach as I watched his bowed form and heard the blood hit the floor. I sniffled quietly and thought that maybe he wanted me to leave, that was why he’d not wanted my touch. But before I could move, his shoulders relaxed and he was finished retching and he rolled back onto my knees and gasped out what could almost be a sob.

“I don’t want to _die_ , Isaac,” His wail was muffled as he had spoken into my knee, but I heard it. All my worry about staying dissipated and I shushed him and rubbed his arm to comfort him. But I had no words to soothe him with. How do you make someone accept their death?

“God,” He kept going, talking into my thigh, “There’s just so much I wanted to _do_ , so much I should have done!” One of his hands landed on my knee and I wanted to grasp it to comfort him, but I didn’t, not yet.

I was at a loss, “I know,” I murmured, giving in and reaching up a hand to pat gently at his cheek and, when I realised that was probably uncomfortable, I moved it up to the sweaty, oily strands of his hair and stroked them lightly.

“I should have kissed Gracie,” His skin under my fingers was beginning to sweat again, and blood ran from the corner of his mouth onto my pants. “I don’t know why I held back- well, that’s a lie, I do know, but it was silly, I’m the broken one, not her, I should have just kissed her,” he was babbling, words blurring together. Suddenly he rolled again and looked at me, eyes alarmingly intense in their objective though slightly glazed. It seems he was sinking back into his sick dreams. “Where is Gracie, Ike?” I recoiled from the nickname. It sounded wrong coming from Jonathan’s mouth. “Can you get her for me? I want to- I want-” His voice burbled of in a wet sounding snap and he coughed the blood out of his throat, not even bothering to roll so it just dribbled down his cheeks and chin.

As gently as I could, I moved my hand from his hair and tugged my coat down off the bench, using the sleeve to wipe off the worst of the wet blood around his mouth. I tried to give him the news as kindly as I could. “Gracewyn’s dead, Jonathan,”

“ _No_!” The cry made me flinch, and I screwed my eyes shut, gripping the arm of my greatcoat tightly. “No,” He whimpered again, quieter. I reopened my eyes and looked worriedly down at him, noting the sweat collecting on the bags under his eyes and the top of his lip.

“Shh,” I cooed, trying to smile, petting at his hair. “I’m sure it was over fast,” I knew for a fact that it had been very, very painful, but I didn’t see why he needed to know that as well. He only whimpered in reply, but pushed his head up into my hand, like a cat.

The coughs were inconsistent. Sometimes they were few and far between and other times it seemed like they never stopped. At one stage, we had a whole hour with only a few coughs, maybe two or three, but they were terrible, blood and viscera pouring onto the floor. The next hour that followed was filled with panting and small coughs, breaths wheezing in and out of his lungs violently in short bursts every ten minutes at least. The best ones were when he was just coughing up air, chest heaving in a ridiculous impersonation of a fish out of water while he retched on nothing, one hand clawing at his chest like he could rip out whatever was blocking his airways, the other sliding against the floor trying to get leverage. The worst were where he had to roll off my legs to sputter and retch to the ground while blood and, more often than not, some sort of matter that belonged _inside_ his body spattered onto the floor from his throat. Sometimes the bad ones left him too tired to come back to me so I had to make sure he was finished before I manoeuvred him back to lying on my knees.

During the quiet moments I would trace my fingers lightly through his hair, which he seemed to like, so I did it often. The first time I rubbed lightly at his temple he opened his eyes and gazed adoringly up at me, opening his bloody mouth to smile, and I saw his throat working to expel words. I matched his stare with one of my own, thinking quietly to myself that his condition probably made him look so open and full of emotion, so vulnerable. If he was in full control of his body and mind I doubt he’d even be here with me.

“You’re a shooting star, Isaac,” He had said to me, his tone elated and full of something I couldn’t identify, his eyes glassy as a slick of blood trickled slowly down his chin. I had smiled back as tenderly as I could and kept working my fingers gently at his temples, but didn’t answer. I had had no idea what he was talking about. But I guess it made sense, in a gloomy, poetic kind of way.

He _was_ dying.

At one point, he had just come down from one of his bigger attacks, the first fit he had had in a half hour of what I had labelled as a sort of serenity. At some point I took off his heavy coat to give him some relief from the heat of his fever, deciding it was best to try and cool him off rather than break it to give him as much comfort as possible. I pulled him back to me as he was too weak to do it himself, and settled him so he could get off easily enough if he needed but I could still comfort him in the hushed moments. His breathing was deep but even like it usually was after a big burst, before the blood clogged his system again, and I began to trace my fingers over his neck, feeling the wild pulse fluttering at his throat, the sharp lines of the tendons running to his jutting collarbone and feeling the hard line of his jaw through his fatless skin. I was tired, really tired, the aches and soreness returning to my body, but the constant work I needed to do for Jonathan kept me fuelled, as well as a tiny fear of what I would dream of if I slept. Jonathan didn’t make a sound as I brushed at his skin lightly, and eventually his racing pulse slowed to a steady thrum, and I didn’t know whether to be thankful that it was still strong, or sad that his pain would be drawn out longer.

We stayed in peace for a long while, until I dozed off with my chin to my chest, one hand placed gently upon Jonathan’s head, the other resting upon my own thigh, fingertips centimetres from where Jonathan’s rested, just above my knee.

I jolted back to reality, neck and knees aching, when Jonathan spun off me onto his hands and knees to vomit a mixture that was basically half blood-half viscera all over the floor. It was the worst yet, and even in my sleepy daze I could see the pain wracking Jonathan’s body as he expelled an almost unnatural amount of blood. I noted hazily that either my flashlight had run out of batteries or Jonathan had turned it off, and also that the room we were in was lit with light from outside, shining through the slats in the blinds that lined the diner’s windows. The rain, it seemed, had petered out sometime during the night, but the light gleaming through the blinds was a pearly grey colour that hurt my eyes and told anyone with a brain that the sun was struggling to shine through a thick layer of cloud.

I could now tell, even in the faint morning light, that the pads of the seats and stools in the diner were a scarlet red, contrasting resolutely with the shiny silver of the tables and benches that made up all of the flat surfaces except the floor in the place, making things glimmer even in the dim light. The floor was tiled in a monotonous pattern of black-and-white linoleum check, though it was covered in patches of flaking and wet crimson a metre which way from Jonathan, blood congealing in the divots of the segmented pattern. There were framed pictures of smiling people on the walls, some signed, and a faded length of neon light upon the wall in the shape of a guitar. Where the hell had we landed ourselves?

 I took my eyes off the surroundings and shook my head a little to wake up, and when I looked again, Jonathan was just spitting the last of the blood from his mouth in a swaying string of spittle and phlegm.  He was trying to contain the sobs that wracked his body and as I watched he curled in on himself, arching his back and moving his head further between his arms so his face was hidden from me by his bicep, which was thinner than I remembered. I could see the blades of his shoulders protruding from his shirt, looking absurdly like the buds of wings on baby birds. My eyes followed the line of his spine sweeping down his back, each nub and bump visible to the naked eye. When my eyes returned to his shoulders, they were rippling with spasms and eventually he lost the battle with himself and let out a loud sob.

I sat up on my knees, feeling them pop and creak beneath me as I stretched them out for the first time in hours. I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat radiating through the tarp-like shirt, and he sort of sagged into my touch; whether in relief or defeat, I couldn’t tell.

“Sorry,” I heard him whisper, and I frowned.

“For what?” I asked, at the same time realising that he was speaking in the first time in a while.

“For waking you up. You were sleeping. Though... though...” He coughed again, this time just to spit a red gob of phlegm onto the caked floor. “Though your face was twitching.” He finished finally.

I didn’t remember any dreams, but I must have been having a pretty bad nightmare if Jonathan had taken note of my expressions in the state he was in.

“I wish I could take all the pain from you,” he sighed, shuffling back towards me, sitting higher than usual so his back was pressed against my chest, forcing me to put my legs up and steeple them on either side of him so he didn’t have my knees digging into his back. He could rest his head on my shoulder in the current position he was in, and he made a small noise of contentment when he did, muttering nonsense I didn’t catch. Seconds later the scant moment of gratification disappeared and he grimaced in pain, and tears sparkled in his eyes when he opened them. They were a light grey, now, the exact same colour they had been when I had first met him, light-years ago on Parade night. His breath was rattling in his chest with every inhale, and there was a wet snapping and crackling sound resonating from the back of his throat with every exhale. But the thing that bothered me the most was that his pulse was still thrumming hard and evenly, albeit a little fast. His pain was going to be so drawn out.

_I wish I could take all the pain from you._ Even in his current state, he wanted to stop my own suffering. How was a person this selfless even real? I don’t know whether it was his defencelessness from the fever or he was just being straight with me, but it was unnervingly sweet, and I just wanted to cut my heart out of my body because it was aching so much. There was something like lead pooling in my belly, weighing it down, and my heart felt like someone was squeezing it in an iron fist. I desperately wanted to take the pain from him. I wanted to stop anything from hurting Jonathan again.

And then I realised I could. I could stop Jonathan from feeling any pain ever again. I could protect him from the world forever, and finally end his suffering.

“Shh,” I brushed the hair off his forehead and felt the sweaty skin burning underneath, before moving my hand down and wiping the tears off his cheeks. “It’s okay, Jonathan,”

“It’s _not_ okay, I-I-Isaac!” The clicking at the back of his throat was worse now, and he paused to shut his eyes and spit blood down his chin, the scarlet liquid running down his neck to pool in the divot of his collarbone and at the collar of his shirt. “You shouldn’t have to-”

“I know,” I cut him off gently, brushing at his hair lightly with one hand while, moving the other behind me, feeling across the floor blindly. “But let’s focus on you now, shall we?” I lent my head forward a little, the bruise on my jaw right where Marhkuhs had punched me bumping slightly onto Jonathan’s temple, but the slight pain felt good, the little jolt intensifying the clarity of my thoughts. I tried to look him in the eyes, but the angle was off and he only had his eyes open to half-mast, so I wasn’t even sure he could see me.

“It _does_ hurt,” He mumbled, agreeing with me.

“Do you want me to stop it?” I asked, and finally my hand that had been fumbling around behind me closed over the cold metal hilt of the knife.

His eyes slid open all the way and he turned to look at me with surprise. “You can do that?” He sounded bewildered and astonished, and then the look in his eyes turned to something so relieved it was painful. Something else was mixed in with that relief that I couldn’t read, so I just smiled warmly at him, desperate to rid him of all his ailments. I could save him. We were so close I could feel his panting breaths against my chin and mouth and smell the rank stink of copper on his breath.

“I can.” I assured him, and all the surprise left his eyes and they turned to the epitome of warmth and love and trust as he gazed up at me with so much relief and faith that he started to cry again. “Nothing will hurt you again, I promise.”

“Oh,” he let out a little gasp of breath and the gratitude immediately turned to pain as he started coughing again. The sound grated from the back of his gullet and I watched with horrified fascination as his throat moved and clicked in pain and the attempt to expel whatever was building up inside of him.

Our hands finally touched as he grasped the hand I had on his head so tight it was almost painful, bringing it down to rest by his mouth and he craned his head so our eyes met. Even with the awkward angle I could see his eyes were wide and beautifully grey and pleading as he wrapped his long fingers around mine, tears of pain tracing down the tracks on his cheeks as many had done before them. My thoughts were wild and fretful and desperate to help him, and I could feel the pounding of my heart hard in my ears and the rattling breaths coming from Jonathan was all I could hear.

“P-P-” He choked, trying to get a word out, but his chest was convulsing with coughs he was trying to hold in and wouldn’t let him speak. I could feel him bumping me with every cough, his back hitting my chest and stomach as he almost comically bounced against me. Little flecks of blood were flying from his mouth, and a few landed on my hand which he was holding, but I didn’t mind. I knew what he wanted, anyway, and a little bit of bodily fluid wasn’t really bothering me right now.

I could felt my consciousness detach from my body and float into the air to watch the scene about to happen, but at the same time it was like all my senses were enhanced tenfold. I could feel the coolness of the blade in my hand, feel the sweat on my palm, taste a bitter-sour aftertaste in my mouth, hear the rattling breaths coming from my Jonathan, see him _begging_ me to stop the pain _now_ and smell the overpowering tang of iron in the air, mixed with the ever-present stench of garbage.

I raised the blade and brought it down hard onto Jonathan’s chest, right above where I presumed his heart would be. It was harder than I thought. When watching people get butchered in the previous Hunger Games, the blades or maces or arrows just seemed to sink through the flesh like a knife through warm butter, cleanly slicing the target. But actually piercing someone’s torso was difficult, and I prayed I wasn’t causing him too much prolonged pain as I forced the blade through the meaty pectoral, crunching through ribs and into muscle that I felt clench around the knife. I had sunk the stiletto to the hilt and blood had sprayed from the wound, splashing my hand and the underside of my chin. I think a bit even got on the tip of my nose.

His back arched and he tensed all over, feet sliding out from under him as he used them and his back to lift his body from the ground. He slid a few inches down my body, feet slipping on the wet floor, until he came to rest with his head on my abdomen. He drew a deep breath in and I could hear it bubble and click on the way down his windpipe. His eyes were open wide but there was no trust or hope in them anymore, just astonishment and pain. The hand mine was clenched in gripped even tighter and I blinked in pain as his fingers dug into my skin, staring into his anguished eyes. A murmur of hurt escaped me, but it was eclipsed by the long hiss of air Jonathan released from behind his clenched teeth and he slowly slumped back to the floor, fingers easing their hold, feet slipping into a relaxed sprawl.

I watched as his eyes, which had been fixed on the ceiling during his small convulsion, slowly drifted to mine again, eyelids fluttering. He managed to meet my gaze and hold it, just watching me, even as his hand released mine completely and slithered to the floor, landing with a wet thump on the quickly drying blood. I stared, transfixed, into his slate grey eyes and watched as they dimmed, the life leeching out of him gradually until there was just a tiny, miniscule spark left deep in them- so deep that I had to lean in close to see it, folding at the waist so my forehead was almost touching his nose. Jonathan hadn’t taken another breath in since the last one, and he was completely still, but I could almost _feel_ the life thrumming within him, unwilling to let go of the mortal coil.

“It’s okay, Jonathan,” I said, and one last tear slid down his face, dropping onto my pants. I brought my free hand up to probe lightly at his neck, clumsily but gently looking for a pulse, and I felt it hammering wildly against the cords of his neck just under his strong jaw. It was ironic, now, that I was the one who was feeling the life finally beat against my fingertips since he was the one who had always measured mine, but it was also fitting, in a way. He had always felt my pulse thrum with life, and I was about to feel his stop. “Just let go,” I consoled him, letting go of the knife still stuck in his chest to stroke his hair with my other hand.

Finally, his pulse started to slow, and I smiled encouragingly, my own breath catching in my throat, a hiccough escaping me. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. This was a good thing. I was saving him. The beating against my fingers became so erratic and sluggish that I knew he’d be gone in just a few more moments. His mouth opened a little and, for once, no substance came out, just the tiniest of sighs, the last of his breath that he had kept locked in his lungs in a futile attempt to survive. His blood-coated lips shaped a word- I don’t know what, I couldn’t read it upside down- and then the tattoo against my fingers stopped altogether and the spark faded out of his wonderful eyes, and I was left kneeling in the middle of a blood-soaked floor, still very tied to my own mortal coil, holding tightly to the corpse of the last of my friends.

The cannon fired, jolting me out of my staring contest with a dead boy. The eyes which I had admired so much, that had changed colour with the sky and lighting and had been so full of mischief and life, were now just blank and hollow and ... dead.

Funny, that.

With shaking hands, I brushed the sweaty hair off his clammy forehead and bent further; resting my brow on his while I regulated my breathing, cupping his head from the back with both my hands. I struggled to keep the pit of emotion back, and I knew I should have dumped an ocean on top of the desert because the panic and grief and loneliness were pressing against my mind, forcing my consciousness to come to life in the worst of ways.

_What have I done_ , I kept thinking, my breathing getting faster, pressing my forehead harder against Jonathan’s as I squeezed my eyes shut so tight I saw tiny pinpoints of light in the pitch black void. _What did I just_ do? _Isaac!_ My breathing was hard and loud, coming out of my mouth in deep, rasping pants, and my fingers twined and pulled at Jonathan’s oily, sweaty hair, tugging fitfully, and I think I was trying to elicit a response from the boy who I knew was dead.

After a time I calmed down and an inkling of pride glimmered through the grey fog in my mind (that was suspiciously the colour of Jonathan’s eyes) at the fact that no tears had escaped me. I took one last deep breath in and lifted my head, feeling the pleasant relief in my back as I straightened up. I gently lifted Jonathan’s head off my lap and scooted out from under him, placing it reverently back on the floor when I was out of the way. Taking a deep breath, I knelt down again and grabbed the hilt of the knife still sticking out of his chest, jerking it upwards so it slid free with a wet _schuck_ -ing sound, momentarily lifting his torso up so it landed with a soft _thump_ back onto the floor. I wiped the blade clean on his greatcoat, still crumpled where I had thrown it after taking it off of Jonathan, and then arranged his body so he didn’t look like he’d died in pain; folding his hands over his chest and straightening out his legs. I didn’t know how to shut his eyes so I left them open and glassy as I scooped up my torch and put it in my bag alongside the knife, taking a swig from my water bottle since I had my pack open.

My stomach rumbled, a tribute to how hungry I was since I was still surrounded by blood and bodily tissue and a _corpse_ , but even the coppery stench wasn’t even to quell the crying from my belly. I sighed out one last shaky breath and then left, weaving around the counter and stools until I reached the glass doors leading into the eatery. They opened under my pushing hands, to my happy surprise, and I walked out, turning back once to squint up at the building, avoiding looking inside. There was a red and silver metal sign above the doors that was rusting around the edges, the blue letters slightly faded, but after a minute I read the cursive as **Slice of Heaven.** Jonathan’s voice floated back to me through the foggy recesses of my mind, sweet and happy and at ease in the arena where it should have been as high and wavering and broken as a young boy’s. I remembered that the sky had been bright and a pretty shade of grey-blue and had made me squint, and that I had tasted the thick, cottony taste of fear and panic on my tongue for the first time since the gong sounded at the beginning of the Games. I felt the memory of the all-too familiar grate of rough asphalt on my palms as I spooked backwards, and remembered bitterly and with my heart jolting how I had thrown away Jonathan’s friendship for the first time.

But before that- before I had rejected his companionship and trust and happy smiles and mischievously glinting eyes that had been opalescent in colour on the day, ever changing- he had been singing softly in that voice of his, that voice that nobody would hear fresh out of his smiling mouth ever again; “ _But tell me, did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven is overrated?”_

_Well_ , I thought, turning my back on the diner and shouldering my pack before beginning to limp away, down the street with the thick, cloudy sky that smelt of rain and storms above me, the stench of garbage invading my nostrils more than ever. _Heaven is overrated indeed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, again, some lines of the song are Train's _Drops of Jupiter_.


	20. Killer Outfits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had endured countless injuries this Game but the one that had me swearing like a sailor was a tiny little scratch. Well, you know what they say- it’s always the little ones.

Two interesting things happened after Jonathan’s death that day.

The first was that two more cannon fires sounded by the time the sun set. They weren’t close together, the first probably within maybe four hours of Jonathan’s death, the second just before nightfall, so the most likely theory (‘most likely’, pssh- mine was the only opinion given) is that they weren’t connected.

The second was that I made a successful hunt. Of an animal, I mean. And it totally wasn’t an accident. Or maybe it was. But I hope maybe some sponsors would see it as a proper hunt, though I could almost _taste_ Rowan slapping a hand to his forehead in exasperation.

It had just been a pair of feral cats scuffling in an alley I had ducked down to take a leak in. I had finished my business and was zipping up my pants when there was a yowling cry from further into the dimness of the lane. Being the dumbass I was, I walked towards the noise, standing on the tips of my toes to see over a stinky dustbin. What I did not expect was two cats flying over the bin at my head, claws out, hissing like little steam engines. One was evidently being chased by the other, and that was the first one to land on my head, little claws digging into my scalp, tail whipping back and forth anxiously before my eyes.

Naturally, I panicked. I grabbed the thing by the folds of skin at the back of its neck and tore it off my head, all the while yelling in surprise and pain. I only had time to throw the thing as hard as I could at the brick wall before the other cat was upon me, this time jumping _onto my face_ and trying to claw its way down my neck. With this one, I tore it off with both hands and holding it out in front of my body to try and keep it still. It didn’t like that one bit so, to tell me that, it clawed a deep cleft one of my fingers, and boy did _that_ hurt. So of course I dropped it, as per its wishes. What the cat probably _didn’t_ want was my leg swinging out to catapult it into the wall as it plummeted toward the dirty ground, and it landed with a smacking noise before falling to a heap beside the other one.

I didn’t realise I had killed them, at first. But I guess I had to realise after I finished swearing under my breath and inspecting the little cut of my finger. I had endured countless injuries this Game but the one that had me swearing like a sailor was a tiny little cat scratch. Well, you know what they say- it’s always the little ones.

 ---

I was still walking when the anthem played and the faces showed in the sky. First was the male Tribute from District Two looking down at us blankly with blue eyes, thick eyebrows set high on his brow. Next was the girl from Four whose brown hair was cut as short as mine, eyes half-mast and smoky on the cloudy sky. Last was Jonathan, his black hair shiny and healthy looking, flopped over his forehead in that stupid front-fringe that he was forever blowing up out of his eyes. In the picture, his nose was wrinkled just a tiny bit and his mouth was slightly twisted, like he was trying not to laugh. His eyebrows were raised just the smallest amount, just enough that the whole picture looked like he was two seconds away from bursting out laughing. I liked that. It suited him.

I found an empty business building in which to set up camp for the night. I messed around and stalled for time as I built a little fire in the middle of the tiled third-floor foyer. I know it was a little unconventional but there was no way in hell even I was dumb enough to eat some raw meat, so starting a fire was the only alternative I had if I wanted to eat these cats, even if it was inside and on tiles. I had chosen an office building- or well, an empty building with divided cubicles that looked like offices- so there was plenty of paper around for kindling. There were also these little stool things I found in what seemed to be the kitchen- I stayed well away from the solitary microwave- that seemed to be made of wicker. They were easy to break up, anyhow, so I brought all three of them out with me to where I was making the fire. I laid everything out in a neat pile; scrunched up paper tucked neatly inside a triangle of thin stool legs, right and ready to burn, and then I turned to the cats where they were lying on the floor where I left them, already starting to stiffen. Gross.

It took me long enough to get motivated to skin the cats, but my stomach, as always, won in the end, telling me to suck it up and get it over and done with. By the time I was done I had the entrails, bones and skin in a nice but rather larger than I expected pile as far away from me as I could reach, and the meat in another heap next to the fire. The meat was rather... lacking in quantity than I would have hoped, but, boy, was I not complaining. I tried to be fancy and fashion a spit out of the leftover wood from the stools to hold over the fire but halfway through construction I realised I had no idea what I was doing, so I ended up spearing pieces of meat on my would-have-been spit and just holding it over the sizzling flames while they cooked and dripped watery blood.

Later that night I curled up in the corner of an office, staring in the direction I knew the closed door was in. I had my bag squashed uncomfortably behind me and my knees up to my chest, hands resting on my kneecaps with my chin on top of them. I didn’t want to go to sleep. I knew that if I slept, I would have nightmares, and now I had Jonathan to add to the body count, and I didn’t want to see him- any of them- again. They needed to rest in peace, and I reckoned that returning from the dead every night to scare the heck out of me is no way to start your afterlife.

It was a night where I was either on one end of the sleep spectrum or the other. At some points I would be nodding off, eyelids fluttering shut as I breathed out a sigh and got comfortable, before forcing them open and gauging how tired I really was. If I felt like all I wanted to do was fall over and sleep forever, I'd force myself to shuffle around to face the wall and slowly tip over till my head was on the floor, giving a few attempts before I managed to kick my feet high enough off the ground for them to stay in the air and for it to be counted as a headstand. I would stay like that for thirty seconds or so before returning to my original position and continuing to wait.

The headstanding thing was what I and a few of the other boys from the community home had used to pull all-nighters back when we wanted to do something fun that doubled as an act that would piss Mrs Ferwere off to all hell. Though it had been easier at the community home because I had had at least two boys holding my legs in the air to balance me when I had needed to headstand, whereas now I had to balance off the wall/window behind me, my butt on the plaster but my feet thudding far too loudly against the glass. One of the boys had said that it helped us stay up because it causes all the blood to rush to your head and that made you more active or more awake or whatever, but he was, y’know, nine years old so I didn’t really know how valid his statement was. But it had worked then and it was working now, so I wasn’t questioning him that much.

At other times of the night, I would be hyperactive. I'd beat a rhythm against my knees, pluck incessantly at the laces of my boots and, at one point, I even got my torch out (Jonathan must have switched it off because it still had battery power left) and made finger puppets on the wall.

I made a note in my head of who was left with me in the Games. There was the boy from District One; Mocha, I think his name was. I tried to picture him but all I was getting was a tall, slender boy with brown skin. I couldn’t remember any details about his face or his style of, y’know, murder, which would have been helpful, but what’re you gonna do, really.

Also remaining was the boy from Three, who I didn’t not remember at _all_. He might’ve, I don’t know, had brown hair? I’m really not sure. The same went for the girl from Eight. I didn’t remember much about her other than the fact that she had back hair, was a bit of a chubster- I know, I’m a horrible person- and I hadn’t thought she’d last a day once the Games began.

Lastly, there was the girl from Ten. I knew she was the same sort of build as her partner- the one I had seen die a horrible fiery death- which meant that she was still a big threat. She had had dark blonde hair I think, or maybe it was sandy brown? I didn’t even know anymore. Everyone’s faces were blurring in my head. A throbbing started behind my eyes and I closed them and rested my brow on my arms- for only a second, I swear- but when I raised my head again, though the throbbing was still there, the building was lit with an ugly grey light shining through the windows.

“Wakie wakie, eggs and bakie,” I grumbled to myself, wincing as the throbbing intensified when I moved my head. I took a drink of water, longer than I usually would have, in hope of getting rid of the ache. The pulse did ease a little but it was still there, so I’d have to grin and bear it.

The world shook right when I was about to get up, and it knocked me off my feet, causing me to fall out of the crouch I had been in and to smack my head back right into the wall. Stars sparkled behind my eyes and I howled in pain more than fear as the throbbing beat a conga in my head and the world raged and trembled around me. I wrapped my hands into my hair, right above the bump I knew was forming and tears streamed out of my eyes in a moment of weakness. I curled up in the foetal position and listened through a haze of pain and beats in my head to the rattle of the glass panes in the wall and the thuds of chairs upturning and appliances and stationary rattling to the ground. When it stopped, I hissed out a pained curse at my head before I realised it may cost me my cutest Tribute title, but I just didn’t care about that any more. I was in the bottom five Tributes left, I’m sure I had more sponsors now than I did at the beginning, cuteness be damned.

I waited for the cannon to boom, because they can’t have gone to the trouble for causing an earthquake for nothing, right? But it didn’t come, and I was still waiting with watering eyes when I was packed and by the door leading outside, ready to leave. I had taken some painkiller pills for the ache in my head so it had now dulled, but my mind was still kind of hazy. Looking into the first aid kit had made me realise that it was probably time to clean my wounds and change my bandages but I was in pain, frustrated, sad, and tired so I childishly didn’t want to. I assured myself with a false sense of security that my injuries were fine, anyway.

I opened the door a crack and peered outside, looking up and down the street, checking for any other signs of life. There were none, so I decided it was safe to leave. My head was still swimming and I was a little dizzy, but I didn’t let it faze me when I randomly picked a direction and began walking.

My confusion about the quake found solace after a half hour for walking. I had been heading in the direction of the out rim of the city and I had been correct, it seemed, because evidently the Gamemakers wanted to cut us off from the suburbs and make the Arena a little... smaller.

There was a... well, not _giant_ , but a sizable chasm now stretched between the inner city (where I was standing) and a few ugly apartment buildings that came before the more dingy suburbs. A few buildings on either side of the gorge had crumbled and either partially or fully fallen in. By my (unreliable) estimate, someone _may_ have been able to jump the gap if you had enough of a run up, a little bit of a height advantage (like a ramp or the like) and good enough power in your legs, but I doubt anyone would even be stupid enough to even consider considering it.

After staring blankly at the jagged canyon for a minute or two, I didn’t even entertain the thought of going to look over the edge, just turned and walked back into the city. I guess the others would be easier to find now. My stomach growled. Hopefully food would be easier to find now, too.

I walked for a long time after that. The sun rose from one side of the sky to the middle, but I only knew that because I saw it shine through the grey clouds. It didn’t smell like rain, but I figured maybe it would rain tomorrow or during the night. A cannon fired sometime during my walk, but I guess that was inevitable around this time, right? There weren’t many of us left, so, naturally, we’d die more frequently.

Finally, I spied a reasonable-looking three-storey flat nestled between two other huge apartment complexes, probably fourteen-storey’s tall each at least, and entered in the hope of scrounging up some chow. There were three apartments on each floor, and all of the doors were open and accessible. The first apartment I went to on the first floor had a pantry stocked with bread and cheeses (that were off and mouldy- damn that was a stinky pantry) and fruits that had me running in the opposite direction, both from the smell and from the knowledge that the food would totally be poisoned. The second and third apartments on the first floor had no food, though I did see a trail of crumbs leading into a mouse hole in the wall. I bet that mouse was long dead by now.

The second floor was not much different. One apartment had a stale loaf of bread that, though I wasn’t going to eat it- when I picked it up was as hard as a brick. The second apartment had a little bowl of chips on the dining room table, which I smelt- and then proceeded to sneeze at. The third residence I went to was swimming in rats. Seriously. I opened the door and the floor was just a moving mass of grey, brown and white, all moving around frantically to the soundtrack of tiny shrieks and scuttling noises. Needless to say, I slammed that door so hard and so fast I would have chopped my fingers off if they had been sitting on the jamb and never looked back.

I struck gold on the third floor, thankfully. In the second apartment I found two unlabelled tin cans, sealed tightly and bent slightly out of shape so I'm sure that meant they were safe. They were right at the back of one of the top kitchen cupboards, behind I mass of spiders’ web and egg sacs, but that didn’t bother me after I spotted the dull aluminium behind the cottony white strands.

Inside one of the cans were some soft beans in a red sauce that might have attempted to be tomato flavoured. I knew immediately that it would have tasted better warmed up, but there was no way in hell that I was using a microwave so I ate the whole thing cold. It was disgusting, but satisfied my tummy for now.

I put the other can in my pack, and it was assuring that I would have something to eat later. I made my way back downstairs and was about to leave when I eyed the coat cupboard under the staircase I had just come down. I knew I was pushing my luck, but one can never have too many weapons, and yeah, okay, maybe I wanted a sword again because they were cool. Don’t judge me.

The door creaked on rusty hinges when I opened it and inside there were about three coats slumped on wire hangers attached to a metal bar running horizontally above my head. I pushed them to the side with my arm and bent at the waist to get a look at the back of the cupboard. There was nothing there, but I didn’t get further than the initial spark of disappointment because something landed on the back of my head, right on my hair.

Whatever it was only had a moment to start moving towards my neck before I let out a totally manly scream and jerked my right arm up to flick whatever it was off my head.  I swept my hand from where my right shoulder meets my neck up my head and expected whatever it was to be pushed off by the back of my hand and fly into the wall in front of me. And while it did leave my head, something soft and lined curled over my attacking hand and up my arm, covering it from my knuckles to my shoulder.

I stood upright very abruptly, and turned my head just in time to see the trench coat on the hanger next to me open and fly towards my head. It covered me and squashed my face into the silky inner-lining of the coat, the other sleeve wrapping around my left arm. I was instantly suffocating, the fabric so tight around my head I couldn’t draw a breath in, and I felt both my arms getting constricted by the sleeves which were now coiling tightly around both appendages. In my alarm, my head went completely blank and I acted on instinct; backing out of the cupboard as fast as my stumbling feet could take me, which resulted in my tripping over the lip of the entryway into the closet and falling hard right onto my butt.

This was a good thing, though, because it tore me mostly out of the coat’s grip so I was left panting, sitting with my head free but my arms from the elbows down wrapped in the sleeves of the coat. It wasn’t even a nice trench coat anyway, just a boring cream coloured one. It was nothing special. I mean, if I was going to be murdered by clothes, at least make them _nice_ clothes, y’know?

Still, better to be killed by the coat then the ugly plaid shirts hanging beside it in the cupboard. I mean, death by _plaid_? That would just be sad. Boy was I glad my thoughts weren’t broadcast out loud or my masculinity points would be out the wazoo by now.

I was still scared out of my brain from the sudden attack so I impulsively ripped my arms violently downwards and out of the coat’s grip; so hard that my clenched fists bounced off my thighs which were directly below them. I immediately leapt up and got the hell out of Dodge, crashing through the front door of the apartment building and proceeding to trip over my feet on the asphalt and fall face first onto the road outside, putting my hands out just in time to save my face, but I skinned the heck out of the heels of my palms.

I stood up shakily, inspecting my bleeding palms, and was about to laugh off this whole experience when I glanced up and froze. Right down the end of the road was another Tribute, looking as big as the tip of my finger because they were so far away, but still. I couldn’t really tell if they were looking this way, but I started edging back towards the side of the road anyway, back towards shelter. Maybe I could ambush them when they walked back up here, but a front-on assault would not be a smart idea.

I took one step before they began to move toward me, and, hot damn, was I in trouble. I turned tail and ran right into the apartment building- not the one I had just left, but one of the vastly tall ones beside it- and burst first through the double front doors and then through the door to the stairwell and began pounding up the flight of steps, my legs fuelled by my meagre meal and adrenaline from the fear. They must think they’re pretty strong if they wanted to challenge me face-on, so I estimated that it was either the Tribute from District One or Ten. The only advantage I had was that if I hadn’t seen what they looked like, they didn’t know who I was, either.

A plan formed in my head, borne of desperation and anxiety, and it required a hell of a lot of luck. Even if I got all the components to even put the plan into action, I prayed I would have enough time. And even after that, there were so many holes in the plan.

After all, the plan _was_ to kill myself.


	21. Dead Boy Rises pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blood from my wound had almost soaked under my whole shirt now, and ran onto the carpet I was lying on. My breathing was quiet and slow, and I knew as soon as the Tribute entered and looked at me that I would be dead in their eyes. There was no help for someone who had bled this much. I knew that as a fact.

When I passed a sign with a three on it on one of the landings, I heard the door to the stairs open again and someone began stomping up them. I slowed my pace, becoming quieter, but trying to still go faster than the steps I could hear because, well, I didn’t really want them to catch up to me, did I?

There were two sets of stairs before every landing, so I estimated that I had one chance and one chance only when I chose an apartment to put the plan into action before they were onto me. After passing the ninth floor, my legs were aching and I was sweating like a pig, so I opened the door on the next landing and slipped through as quietly as I could onto the tenth floor.

The hallway was covered with a wine-coloured carpet that muffled my footsteps but was also so thick that it left indents of my boots on it. I cringed, but it couldn’t be helped to I jogged down the hall and held my breath, gnawing at my lip and reading the numbers of whatever room I should choose. I finally decided on room **107** and swept in, sprinting straight to the kitchen, refusing to listen to thecomplaints in my legs. “ _Please please please please..._ ” I whispered under my breath as I tore open cupboards and drawers and, finally, I found what I was looking for: a small bottle of red food dye.

After one more minute, I was in sitting in the living room behind the plush white leather couch, my pack flung across the other side of the room, the items previously in it scattered about. I had my knife in my hand along with the bottle of food dye and a zip-lock bag I had found also in a drawer in the kitchen. Before sitting I had opened one of the windows so there was a slight breeze fluttering the dark green curtains, and I hoped it looked like someone could escape out of there. The dye was a twist top opening so probably poisonous like all the other open food and drink in the city, but I had never put any in my mouth before so I was sure I'd be okay.

I didn’t expect the cannon fire then, but aside from flinching I didn’t really react. Though it might have been the person chasing me, I couldn’t risk hoping that it was, so I'd go through with the plan anyway. If I could do it in time.

Working quickly, I opened my jacket and tore a gash in my shirt with the dagger before chucking it across the room to join my other scattered belongings. Cursing myself, I got up and quickly hid the knife under the couch, next to where I'd be lying. If someone had killed me surely they'd take the knife.

Trying to make up for precious lost seconds, I quickly unscrewed the cap on the dye and poured it into the zip-lock bag until it was mostly full. In the process I spilt a lot of dye on my fingers but I didn’t take any notice at that point in time. Then I put the cap back on the dye and I _really_ didn’t want the Tribute that was after me to see the bottle (it would be a tad suspicious) so I pulled my arm back over my head and swung it down in an arc to send the bottle spinning out the window. I then tore a small hole in the middle of one of the bags and pulled up my shirt, flipping the bag so the hole faced my skin and placing it on my chest so it would be covered by my shirt when I pulled it back down. The dye began to run and I hoped a believable amount would be out by the time the Tribute came in.

I could feel it running down my sides when I heard the door click open. I did a final scan of my body and saw my hands still red with congealing dye. It was pooled in the cuticles of my nails and the webs of my fingers, there was so much that it was bound to give me away. So without thinking I licked the dye off, suckling gently on my fingertips and licking up and down each digit, my thoughts distracted and my eyes panicked and watching the entryway into the lounge room. There was more than I expected and it tasted disgusting on my tongue; almost spicy, like pinpricks onto my tastebuds. It tasted sharp. I admit I even made embarrassing slurping noises because there was so much to get off and I was rushing. But I only recalled that when I thought back to it- in the moment I was more worried about not getting killed by the Tribute in the same apartment as me.

Once I deemed my hands clean enough, I lay down on my back, moving my arms out so I was spread-eagle on the carpet, dye slowly running down my shirt, colouring the skin under the rip in the fabric a bloody red. I slowed my breathing so it was measured and even; my heartbeat softening in the moments that passed to a snail pace and quiet, and my feet were starting to get pins and needles because they’d been stationary for a fair bit of time.

The blood from my ‘death wound’ had almost soaked under my whole shirt now, and ran from under the collar to pool under my chin and run into my hair and onto the carpet I was lying on. My breathing was quiet and slow, and I knew as soon as the Tribute entered and looked at me that I would be dead in their eyes. There was no help for someone who had bled this much. I knew that as a fact.

Finally, the Tribute entered. I only saw them out of the corner of my eye, but as soon as she moved into my peripheral vision I held my breath and fixed my gaze to the creamy white roof.  It was the girl from District Ten, and she stopped moving as soon as she saw me sprawled on the floor. She hesitantly moved closer, and then slowly crouched beside my face, turning her head to look me in the eyes. Of course, as soon as she did my eyes began to itch and I wanted to blink almost as much as I wanted to ease the incessant tugging at my lungs telling me to breathe.

Her eyes were wide as they looked into mine, and though I had to unfocus my eyes slightly because I felt that that was how a dead person would look, I still noticed the tear tracks down her ruddy cheeks. He face was plain- her nose was kind of beaky, eyebrows a little on the thick side, lips full and hair a cute shade of strawberry-blonde that was plaited down her back- not light brown or blonde as I had originally thought. Wisps of hair fell into her wide brown eyes, and they looked so scared and lost that I almost forgot she was here to kill me. She looked like any other kid, just a regular person that was in too deep.

She sniffled and stood, and I heard her knees creak as she got up out of the crouch. I took a chance and blinked just once quickly, and took a minute breath in. She went to the window and leaned half-out, wide hands on the wooden sill. She looked out, first left, and then right, before groaning coming back inside fully, kneeling down by the window and putting her face in her hands to stifle the sounds of her sobs. Her plait swung over one shoulder, her broad shoulders stretching the material of her coat taut as she bowed them to bury her face into her hands. I felt pity swamp my fear, though I didn’t know why she was crying. Was it because she missed out on the opportunity to kill someone? Or was it just because she was tired of all of... this?

I moved, then, grabbing my knife from under the couch. I rolled silently to my feet and moved towards her, the carpet muffling my footsteps and the rivulets of dye running from my body to the floor, but I doubt she would have heard me over the sounds she was emitting even if I was making a normal amount of noise. When I was about halfway to her, a stab of pain went through my stomach and I almost groaned; as it was I put a hand to my belly and grimaced before moving forward again. I didn’t know what it was but it didn’t matter.

She wiped a hand under her nose and I heard her say “Not many more to go, now, just get it together,” in a voice that was so filled with tears it almost made me cry. “Home soon,” she added, after a small hiccoughing sob.

I took pity on her. She obviously wanted this all to be over as much as I did and, well, it had to be one of us. I flipped the dagger around in my hand so the point faced downwards and then measured a point above her neck. Hopefully it would run straight through and be done with her. I stabbed downwards, just once, a clean shot, and blood spilled from the wound, down under her collar. After only a moment the cannon fired and I took my knife back, stepping away from the body to watch it slump against the window sill and down to the floor.

I looked at the blade of my knife and saw blood covering from the point to the hilt, running down the length of the edge to drip onto the ground. I mechanically bent down and wiped it on the girl’s coat, my mind not really paying attention to my bodies actions. I was slightly shocked- make that very shocked- at the fact that I was one of the two people left in the Arena. _Me_ , Isaac Alldrenn, voted into this by my District to die, may make it _home_.

“I could go home,” I whispered, and the smile it brought to my face was huge. I raised a hand to touch my cheeks as they swelled to accommodate the beam that was on my face, and I even laughed. It all disappeared in a second though, as another harsh feeling of pain ripped through my stomach and I groaned in agony, falling to my knees with a jolt as I wrapped my arms around my waist.

It hurt like nobody’s business- it felt like someone had got a pair of scissors and snipped a little at my stomach, cutting an incision that was both painful and permanent. God, it was incredible, like a stab wound. My good mood dissipated as I moaned again, leaning forward to rest my head against the ground beside the dirt-clogged sole of Ten’s boot. I inhaled shakily and tried to get through it, breathing out in deep breaths to try and ignore the pain.

It subsided eventually, and then I stood. I put my knife in my pack and got out of there, running down the endless flights of stairs and out of the building. I needed to get somewhere when I could just... lie down and get through the pain in my stomach until it disappeared. I walked for a while down the road until the rumble of thunder overhead made me seek shelter. I knew I was nearer to the centre of the city- and the Cornucopia- than before, but I didn’t want to get there just yet. I had a feeling whoever else was left would be around there.

I wound up in a flower shop. I know, it was dumb of me. Logic, coupled with my niggling paranoia, should have kept me at least two hundred feet away from a flower shop. There was so much that could go wrong in there- poisonous flowers, man eating plants, hay-fever allergies, all that. But the pain in my belly was building again and I needed somewhere to crash, stat. And the flower shop was the next open door, and, okay, maybe it smelt nice and that was comforting, so sue me.

I knelt behind the counter for what felt like hours, but it could have just been minutes. My aching knees were pressed to the floor, and I was doubled over, hugging my tummy as it felt like someone was slowly slicing away at the organs inside me. My arms were pressed uncomfortably between my thighs and my stomach and my forehead was pressed into the linoleum floor. The only relief I got was that the ground was cool against my sweaty brow.

I had no idea what was wrong with me. It was like no pain I had ever known before, and I couldn’t think of anything I had done to cause this. I hadn’t been hit hard enough in the stomach or back to cause internal bleeding, and there was no way infection to any of my wounds felt like this. There was no other explanation for this kind of pain. I didn’t even know what this was. Maybe it was just be some really bad stomach cramps? Please just let it be stomach cramps.

But I couldn’t even convince myself. All I knew was that there was something very, very wrong with me.

When the dark light got even dimmer, I knew the sun behind its veil of cloud had passed behind the buildings lining the horizon and it was almost time to see the faces in the sky. I hadn’t moved since I first came into the shop, though the pain had maybe subsided a little. But it was still there, simmering under my skin like a live thing I ached to rip out.

I had to get to the front of the shop, to the window so I could see who my last opponent was. I started slow, sliding my arms out from where they were crushed between my chest and legs to place them palm-down on the floor either side of my thighs.  I then took a deep breath in and slowly pushed myself up so I was kneeling with my back straight. I was doing okay, the pain staying at one level and not increasing with movement as I feared it would. Once I was up, I glanced at my pack which I had ditched as soon as I entered the shop, wondering if it was time to eat. But then I realised was not hungry at all, not even a little. In fact, I was almost full. It felt like that one time when I was ten, seven years ago, when Rowan won his Games- at the end of his Victory Tour District Seven had a wonderful ending feast for him and I drank so much water, just because we had a bountiful supply and I could, that it felt like my insides had liquefied and I would never eat or drink again. I had even had a little pot belly until two days later.

I dismissed it as a good thing. If I didn’t want to eat then I could save the food for later, which was always a good thing. Right?

I managed to make it to the front of the shop where the concaved windows were separated from the main body of the shop by thick, dark blue curtains. I patted them only to sneeze when dust clouds wafted out, so instead of just lifting them out of the way I slid though the gap between them and the wall. I stepped onto the little shelf that held the flowers and manoeuvred my way around the displays until I was pressed against the glass. My tummy ached but I tried to ignore it and I stared at the sky as it was gradually washed over with orange.

The first face in the sky was the boy from District One, his face almost unbearably soft in the photo. He was just staring at the camera, his eyes heavy-lidded but not menacing, just a simple shade of brown that matched his skin, hair clipped short, nose sort of round on the tip, maybe a little upturned.

Next was the boy from District Three, staring mournfully into the camera, thin lips downturned at the corners, icy eyes narrowed, eyebrows curving down. He would look kind if it weren’t for the glare he was giving, and he obviously wasn’t pleased about his fate. But he had made it so far, he must have felt the buds of hope growing in his chest as I do now. Though mine were being swamped with the constant hurting I felt in my belly. Don’t bother telling me; I already know I’m a whinger.

Last was the girl I had killed from Ten. In the picture her strawberry-blonde hair was out, falling in wavy curtains around her face. Her brown eyes were confident and different to the ones that had stared almost hopelessly at me just hours ago. Something had broken in her that had still been whole when that picture had been taken.

When the acrylic blue light faded from the clouds and the world settled into silence once more, it was darker than I expected; so black that when I stared straight out the window I couldn’t even see the building across the street. The heavy cloud cover blocked out the light of the moon and stars, and something heavy hung in the air. It was like the world was waiting, holding its breath and just... watching. There was an edge that we were all balancing on, unsure whether we were going to tumble back to safety or plunge off into the abyss.

I dismissed the tension in the air as paranoia, though I knew that wasn’t really what it was. Things always got... strained this close to the end of the Games. It was the time where everyone expected the final battle, where the Tributes would go charging towards each other, colliding in bloodshed, torn skin, broken bones and screams. But I wasn't ready, nowhere near ready, to face the end yet, so I locked away the anxious thoughts in the back of my mind, for now.

So District Eight’s Tribute was my last contender. I crawled back to the desk and thumbed on my torch, thinking hard on whatever details I could remember about her, which wasn’t much. When I got to the wooden desk I lent a hip against it and stretched my arm in a quick jerk to work out a knot of tension, spinning the light from my torch around the room, putting spots in front of my eyes. As much as I tried, I couldn’t remember anything aside from base facts, but it was driven from my mind when, after I sank to my knees, the pain in my belly intensified for a moment, driving the thoughts of my opponent out of my mind, but the pain only lasted long enough to startle a burp out of my mouth. I would have giggled if I was in the mood, but whatever cheeriness I did have at the fact that I was startled into burping disappeared in a split second when I felt some kind of liquid run down my chin. It didn’t feel like spittle or phlegm, and I raised a hand to lightly brush over the wetness I felt trickling down my jaw. When I brought my fingers up to my eyes, they were red.

Thunder rumbled and the rain started as it fell into place slowly; pictures and their meanings, coupling with what I’ve been going through today connecting like puzzle pieces in my mind. The pieces started to connect with finding Jonathan in a heap in the middle of a bloodstained floor, hearing that he hadn’t eaten in four days, his fever, watching him spew blood for _hours_.

_“I’m still full. I couldn’t imagine eating anything else. My belly feels sloshy,”_

Oh, god. I was poisoned. In a matter of days, I was going to deteriorate into a gibbering mass of fevered sweaty skin, helpless in the middle of a bloody floor.

But what had I eaten? I went over whatever I had put in my mouth in the last few days and was coming up with nothing dangerous. I had eaten nothing that was left in the open. All the food or water I had consumed had come from safe places. I had put nothing in my mouth from those luxurious pantries, nothing except...

I remembered sucking the dye off my fingers, feeling the spiky flavour pricking at my tastebuds, slurping so much off my fingers... The dye. The dye had poisoned me. I remembered my frantic anxiety to not give my plan away to the girl from District Ten, my wild thoughts whose only point of focus was to make myself look dead. In my desperation to rid myself of the evidence that I was still alive, I had sentenced myself to a painful, prolonged, agonising death.

 I was dying.


	22. The Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurt, the weight of her body pressing my fingers into the asphalt. She was settled securely on my hips, so no matter how much I struggled I couldn’t get her off of me. I felt the concrete scrape away the layers of skin around my knuckles and it hurt, but I didn't concentrate on that as the girl from Eight had her hands around my throat and was squeezing, digging her thumbs into my windpipe and cutting off my air.
> 
> I gasped like a fish, trying to get any oxygen in; kicking with my feet and feeling my heels bounce and drag off the cement. I couldn’t do anything, and she lent closer to me, her eyes inches from mine as she studied my face. I arched my back but she stayed put on my hips, feeling like a lead weight and I couldn’t shift her. My energy was fading fast. Red, yellow and black spots bloomed in my vision and I blinked hard, wheezing, my eyes rolling back in my head.
> 
> This was it.

Right there, right in that moment, there was something in my stomach that was melting through the organs inside of me, bursting blood vessels and melting precious vital tissue, and soon I would be unable to stop vomiting both out of my mouth.

Thunder crashed overhead like two giant dustbin lids being smacked together, reverberating right into my brain. Lighting flashed, illuminating the walls where the harsh white light shone through the curtains. I stumbled to my feet, grabbing my pack and clipping it on hastily before running out of the store, ignoring the pain as best I could because I knew it would only get worse.

The rain was coming down in steady, constant streams and within a minute of being outside I was soaked. But I kept running, pushing my hair out of my eyes where it fell in straggles due to the wetness. Though it was cold and uncomfortable, I got an inkling of relief at the knowledge that I was getting somewhat clean. That relief, though, I shoved from my head. What did it matter that I was getting clean when my insides were melting?

Nothing seemed to matter other than reaching the Cornucopia and the pain in my belly. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed the whole time I was running and, though it didn’t take me long to reach the city centre, the noise and constant whiting-out of my vision made me agitated and more on edge that I had ever been. When I finally reached the mouth of the golden horn, I grasped the edge, sliding on the metal a few times before I could get a proper grip to lean against.

I looked around, scooping my hair out of my eyes and glancing everywhere I could. It was hard to see in the grey downpour. The lightning flashes just turned things monochrome and blinding in a way I'd never seen storms do, rather than giving me better light to see by. A sharp wind started, slicing through the rain and making it pelt into my exposed skin, stinging my hands, face and neck. I soon determined that I was the only one in the Centre, the only one waiting. But, so she wasn’t here. That was okay. I could bring her to me.

I took a few steps further into the rain and away from the horn before cupping my hands around my mouth. “Hey!” I bellowed, only to have thunder crack at the same moment, causing me to duck and then scoff, giving the sky an annoyed glare before trying again. “ _Hey_!” I roared, spreading my arms wide like an invitation for her to come and kill me now. “Come on!” Rain was running off my forehead and into my eyes in streams, and I had to keep flicking my head to get the water out of my vision.

I waited in the rain for ten minutes, so sure she would come. At some stage my arms got tired and I dropped them to hang by my sides, whip still clutched tightly in one hand, but I stayed out in the downpour, just waiting. Surely she would come soon, come charging down one of those roads, weapon in hand, hair tossing in the heavy wind, ready to fight. And I needed to fight her soon, or I would end up being a feverish mess on the floor coughing up my melted organs, easy prey. At least right now I had a decent fighting chance.

She didn’t come. I deemed it had been at least ten minutes since I yelled at the sky, and my adrenaline had waned and now I just felt wet and sad. I sniffled in the rain for a few more moments before turning and walking into the Cornucopia to stand out of the rain. I didn’t drop my whip because I wasn’t _totally_ stupid, but I did shake my head a few times, like a dog trying to get water out of its fur, feeling water droplets fly out of my hair and scatter across the walls and floor. The wind made a high pitched whistling sound as it streamed past the mouth of the horn, not really loud enough to do anything but give me a slight headache.

I felt a tickle in the back of my throat and I raised a hand and coughed. I almost didn’t want to look, but I also had an almost inhumane _need_ to see if I had expelled anything aside from germs and breath. I didn’t realise I had my eyes squeezed tight till I had raised my hand to my face and couldn’t see it. I sighed and then peeked out of one eye to look at my palm, fear swooping in my belly when a blot of red was mixing and diluting in the rainwater already on my hand and running down the haggard creases to drop to the floor.

I started breathing fast and deep, trying not to panic. I felt my eyebrows climb up my forehead and my teeth sink into my bottom lip as I stared at my palm, though, so I knew I wasn’t doing such a good job of staying calm. I shouldn’t be panicking that much. I mean, it was just a little blood, right? Just a tiny cough and a tiny splatter. Jonathan had been expelling a ton of the stuff every coughing fit, so this, this _poison_ in its early stages, this wasn’t so bad. I just had to focus. I wasn’t going to die. I wasn’t.

Well, I might, if that chick doesn’t get her ass in gear and _get out here_. Like, c’mon. What was so impractical about having a battle to the death in the middle of the night during a storm that you didn’t even show up?

I was starting to get hot in my jacket, which was strange. I had just been standing in the rain and wind was diverting from its path to rush by me and I _should_ be feeling colder, but instead I was feeling swamped by the heat and water on my skin. The air around me felt almost humid, and my jacket was waterlogged and too heavy for my shoulders. I rested my forehead against the cool metal side of the horn, closing my eyes and drawing in a shuddering breath, though I think I breathed in a little too deeply because it made me cough, and I opened my eyes just enough to see through my lashes, but the surface under my mouth was clean, and I felt a trickle of relief.

I closed my eyes again and rested for a few minutes, wanting to take off my jacket but knowing I shouldn’t. If worst came to worse, I would take it off, but right now I felt I could tough it out while I waited. I measured my breathing and forced myself to calm down, wiping my hand on my pants to get the blood off. When I felt like I was in control again I walked to the edge of the Cornucopia and waited, searching the streets for the girl from District Eight.

The rain never stopped, never even eased, and the constant lightning and thunder set my teeth on edge. This storm was scaring me. It reminded me of the night I found Jonathan. It had been storming then, too, but not this bad. I had never seen a storm this bad. And it just went on and on and on.

A while later, I noticed a change. It was slight at first; so slight I thought I was imagining it. It was nothing physical- the storm still raged, the wind still roared and the darkness remained complete outside the mouth of the horn. But there was this tiny thunking noise amid the sounds of the raindrops hitting the sharp metal- a slow, arrhythmic beat coming from the tail-end of the Cornucopia.

I cocked my head, listening hard. The sound was faint and hard to hear, but it seemed to get... closer, which did make it louder. I stepped back from the mouth and wandered further in to the horn, brow furrowed, trying to hear the sound as well as work out where it was coming from. I stopped midway where the sound was loudest and then looked up when I realised the sound was coming from the roof.

I squinted at the ornate crown of the horn, mouth slightly open, trying to figure out what the noise was. And then it moved. The noise tapped again about two feet away from me, further towards the mouth. I lowered my head and wet my lips and thought, eyes flickering between nothing as I contemplated on what the heck could be on the roof.

And then it hit me. On the roof. Someone was walking on the top of the Cornucopia. And there was only one person that could be.

She landed almost soundlessly in the opening, and she was only a black silhouette against the grey backdrop of the rain. If I hadn’t been watching for her, I would have surely been dead, because as soon as she had steadied herself after her landing she was hurling her spear hard and fast right at my chest. As it was, I barely had time to dive out of the way, landing hard on the floor only to scramble back up again within seconds.

We stared at each other for a moment. Lightning flashed and I took her in, eyes restlessly analysing her body; her heaving chest as she swallowed lungfuls of air, her dripping clothes hanging limp on her body, a deep ugly cut running through one of her eyebrows right to her hairline. She had lost a lot of weight in her time in the Arena, and she didn’t have any other weapons I could see. Her black hair was limp with water and sticking to her face and her eyes were dark, not with hatred, but with desperation.

My hand flew to unbuckle my pack as the only thought in my mind was _I can’t fight her in the Cornucopia_. But she was blocking the only exit and, somehow, I had to get past her. I took a daring step forward to see if I could spook her into moving but, alas, she didn’t even flinch. So being the genius I was, I removed my backpack, held it tightly between both hands and ran at her as hard and as fast as I could. When I was about three feet away from her (which was _not_ far from my starting point- the Cornucopia is pretty small on the inside, as you can imagine) she raised her fists, eyes determined, and I deemed it the right time to fling my backpack right at her face with a cry that sounded something like “ _Nyah-HAH_!”

Hey, it was a spur of the moment thing. I didn’t say it was the best plan.

But it worked. She fumbled for my pack and I sprinted past her out into the rain. I reached the pavement before I stopped and turned to look back, just in time to be knocked to the floor as she barrelled into me. We fell in a heap, and I tried to force one of my legs up between us so I could push her away, but she was bearing all her weight down onto me and I couldn’t raise one. I shoved at her shoulders and jostled her around frantically, and suddenly my knee was pressing against her stomach. I drove it roughly into her and she fell to the side and I scrambled to my feet, trying to see where she was. I blindly swung out an arm in the direction I thought she was in and felt a satisfied hit, but my smugness disappeared when a hand shot out and grabbed the arm I used to punch her. I twisted my wrist into the direction of her fingertips and tore my arm out of her grip, only to get punched in the face for my efforts. I stumbled back, dazed, thinking to get away and try to use my whip still clutched in my hand but my head felt fuzzy and I had to blink a few times to get a grip.

She was fast and I was stunned and she just _appeared_ in front of me and grabbed the hairs at the crown of my head, yanking them backwards, tilting my chin up and baring my neck to the world. I instinctively dropped my whip and latched onto her forearm with both hands, using a brutal grip that hurt even my fingertips to dig into her skin and try to make her let go. My hold didn’t seem to affect her though as she followed her arm forwards so we both fell (again) as she tipped me backwards, but this time she landed with her knees on either side of me, looming over me. She let go of my hair to rip my arms off of her and quickly tucked my hands under her knees, causing me to cry out at the pressure on my knuckles and the backs of my hands.

It hurt, the weight of her body pressing my fingers into the asphalt, and I squirmed, trying to get away. She was settled securely on my hips, though, so no matter how much I struggled I couldn’t get her off of me. I felt the concrete scrape away the layers of skin around my knuckles but a different feeling started to form in my chest. It was a tickling, an itch I couldn’t scratch because it was inside me, and my breath was wet and gurgling when I drew it in. I didn’t have time to analyse it though, because before I knew it, the girl from Eight had her hands around my throat and was squeezing, digging her thumbs into my windpipe and cutting off my air.

I gasped like a fish, trying to get any oxygen in; kicking with my feet and feeling my heels bounce and drag off the cement. I couldn’t do anything, and she lent closer to me, her eyes inches from mine as she studied my face. I arched my back but she stayed put on my hips, feeling like a lead weight and I couldn’t shift her. My energy was fading fast. Red, yellow and black spots bloomed in my vision and I blinked hard, wheezing, my eyes rolling back in my head. This was it. I knew that this was the moment I would die, and it was so... unceremonious. You can call me vain but c’mon, no victory speech from my oppressor or last glance at my lover or anything? I almost felt cheated.

And then she relaxed her hands the tiniest bit and I thought ‘ _great, she’s drawing it out_ ’ because there was no way in hell I could survive on the drop of air that got down my throat, but then my chest spasmed, using the oxygen to expel my oesophagus of the blood pooling in it.

It was completely instinctual, but it saved my life. I hacked a wet cough full of blood right into Eight’s face and she screamed, jerking her hands off my throat and scrambling away from my, scrabbling at her face to get the blood off. And it was totally understandable. For a split second I was even _embarrassed_. Because, really, how disgusting was that? I had just coughed blood in that poor girl’s face. But the rest of my conscious was focussed on taking in heaving breaths and grabbing my whip.

One glance showed me that the girl was crouched on her knees, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and I distinctly heard an “Oh, _yuck_ ,”, and, boy, did I agree with her. Her broad back was to me but she was already recovering, and I knew I didn’t have even one millisecond to waste if I was to pull this off. So, ignoring my aching lungs and sore throat, I pulled my last resource of strength from god knows where and stood. I didn’t stumble as I swung a foot into the side of the hunched figure in front of me, digging the hard point of my boot into the soft flesh just below her ribs, feeling a stab of guilt-ridden sympathy as I knew it would hurt even through her thick coat. Before she could recover, I swivelled the whip in my hand till I palmed the handle and then flicked it, like a total pro, so it wrapped around the girl’s neck. Panting, I slammed the flat of my boot into her lower back, pushing her forward and then flat to the ground and pulled the hand holding my weapon back so she was half-lifted off the ground by her neck.

She gave a gargling cry and lifted her hands to her neck to try and release my hold but what chance did she have against the thick leather? She squirmed against the cement but I saw her strength fading fast, and I was panting almost as hard as she was. This had all happened in an instant, the switching of our positions, and I had been acting on base thoughts from the beginning of this fight. My hand was trembling around the butt of my whip but my foot was steady as I stood harder on her back, shoving her down again into the asphalt. She opened her mouth but no sound came out because I yanked the whip back, jerking her head like a dog on a chain.

I felt a surge of terrifying power as the girl’s life was slowly slipping away, her hands falling to the ground, her head nodding and not fighting quite so hard any more but there was still something left- this girl was a fighter, after all. She hadn’t gotten this far by chance.

I saw myself as the Capitol did- I was in transition, changing from Tribute to Victor, from a boy to a champion. I was a god as I held this human’s life in my hands. I had the power to allow her to live but I had made the choice on my own to not do that. I was going to kill her and become a darling of the Capitol, be showered in riches and love and I would never be alone again. They would worship me, all because I had entered these Games and conquered.

 _But you didn’t enter,_ a small but clear voice in the back of my mind said, _you were forced to be here, forced to kill. You never got a choice. Just like Jonathan. Like Marhkuhs. Like Gracewyn and Rhododendron and Honey._

_“They’re human, just like us, Isaac.”_

The power surge slipped from me and I let go of my whip, letting the girl fall forward onto the cement. But she was already dead, her face a blotchy purple and bloated at the cheeks, her swollen tongue hanging out of her mouth. I stepped back in revulsion, snatching my hands up to clasp at my chest and locking the tips of my fingers together. I took a deep breath in and closed my eyes, feeling my aching body.

Thunder cracked above me and I ducked instinctually, the sudden movement causing a great stab of pain in my belly. I coughed and blood dribbled down my chin and terror at the storm was boiling in my chest. But then, all of a sudden, the sky cleared. It was like someone had ripped a sheet off of the sky, uncovering the midnight blue fishbowl above my head, dotted with a million pinpricks of light. The moon was huge and a dusty shade of grey, spherical and full, almost perfectly round. I took a shuddering breath in, only coughing slightly, and gazed at the stars I knew weren’t even real.

A hovercraft descended from nowhere (they must finally be picking up the dead), and I took some hurried steps away to the Cornucopia, leaning against it heavily and waves of tiredness washed over me. I felt small and sad and sick and I just wanted to sleep. But if I slept I would have nightmares. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to be unconscious, have a dreamless sleep.

The hovercraft picked up the body gently and I realised I hadn’t even heard the cannon fire. Had there even been one? Did they have a cannon fire for the final death? I wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t even remember back to previous years, but I may have just missed it. I wouldn’t trust my mental state right now. Every time I tried to focus on something my head just kind of faded out and I would be left staring fixatedly on the road or the wall or the blood still staining my pants and coat, a white noise buzzing through my head.

Trumpets blared into the still night air and I startled. I almost forgot. I stepped a little ways away from the Cornucopia and look tentatively at the sky. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I felt shy and intimidated, even though no one else was going to hurt me. I was free. I had won.

I had won.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Bunny Crosswire called into the empty Arena. I took a deep breath in and took another step forwards. Another feeling was growing in my chest, overriding the trepidation from before. It was something good- it was filling me up, making me smile, though it was dampened slightly by the pain in my belly. “I am pleased to present the Victor of the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, our first Quarter Quell,” Bunny continued, and I wrinkled my nose slightly at his nasally voice, but raised my face to the sky, holding an arm up, fist clenched in a movement of triumph. “I give you Isaac Alldrenn of District Seven!”

They played the cheers of the Capitol live out of the invisible speakers and it was deafening. They were roaring and cheering and I was doing it along with them. I whistled and yelled and celebrated into the sky, dancing around on the spot, ignoring the pain in my belly in favour of celebration. I was alive. I was a Victor. And I was going home.

A bright spark of pain stopped my celebration and I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach as my cheers turned to a bellow of pain. It took me a moment but when I opened my eyes after I had squeezed them shut I saw I was kneeling in the middle of a spotlight shining down from a hovercraft that was steady above me. I squinted up at the vehicle and saw a ladder descending, and I stumbled to my feet, gritting my teeth against the pain my body was bombarding me with. The ladder hit my shoulder softly and then slid off till it stopped, reaching halfway down my thigh. I stepped onto it, looping an arm through the rungs to get a better grip and felt the electric current freeze me in place.

The ascension was strange, seeing the ground fall away from you, but I had to remind myself that I was going to safety. The pain in my belly was building but all my muscles had been temporarily paralysed as I clung to the ladder so I couldn’t even paw at my stomach. Not that it would have done any good and, let’s be honest, I would have fallen making this whole thing totally redundant, so it was probably best I was frozen.

When I finally reached the hangar of the hovercraft and the door had shut beneath me, I was met by a three men, one in a doctors white coat with a mask hanging around his neck, ready to be put on. Tears were trembling on the ridges of my eyes, and as soon as I was unfrozen I blinked and they fell down my face, cutting paths through the grime on my cheeks. The hangar smelt weird; it was a familiar smell but I couldn’t place it. One of the adults caught me as I stumbled off the rungs and I couldn’t help it; I wailed, clutching my stomach and bending over in pain. I didn’t think there were any cameras on me now but I found I didn’t care- I didn’t have to work for sponsors anymore, I could act however I liked.

The man who had caught me tried to soothe me by making shushing noises but I flinched away from his big hands where they reached for me. For a moment I was back in the Games and he looked bloodthirsty, and his hands, reaching for my head, were clutching weapons. I scrambled back and away, a yelp escaping my throat, but I blinked and it was gone. He had a concerned look on his face, his brown eyes crinkled with worry. I apologised hesitantly, eyes roaming the hangar for danger until I remembered there wasn’t any. I forced myself to take a deep breath and then accepted the hand reached out to me so I could stand on my feet.

The fright I’d had had taken my mind off of the pain coiling in my stomach but it returned with a vengeance when I got vertical. I whimpered and clutched tightly on the hand that had helped me up, digging my fingers in until I heard a stifled gasp of pain. I raised my eyes and stared at the doctor.

“Help me,” I panted, gritting my teeth.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, reaching over to pat my shoulder. He pointed towards a door off to the side of the hangar and we all started moving towards it, though I dragged my feet and stumbled so much the two men practically had to carry me. “You just need to come this way so I can put you under and siphon out the blood in your stomach.” He continued.

“Under?” I asked, dribbling blood down my chin.

“You know,” He chuckled amiably, sharing a comfortable glance at the other men. We entered what I presumed was an operating room with a slim silver table and a metal tray littered with tools, and even the air smelt sterile. A clear glass door shut behind us, closing us off from the rest of the hovercraft. “Unconscious. We need you sedated so it doesn’t hurt.”

“Right,” I mumbled, sitting on the edge of the table and letting them undress me. They shed my clothes down to my underpants and I was too tired to even care.

“This looks infected, sir,” One of the men told the doctor as he crouched by my knee. He must have been talking about the cut on my calf, and I leant forward to check it out but the third man caught my shoulders and held me back.

“Just let the doc deal with it, Mr Alldrenn,” He said, and I stared glumly at the two crouched by my leg, trying to hear what they were saying but not quite being able to. The third man kept his hands on my bare shoulders just in case I was planning to attempt to eavesdrop again but he didn’t have to worry.

A minute or two later the doctor and his assistant stood again and smiled at me. “Lie back now, Isaac,” The doctor said, and I followed his orders, leaning out of the other man’s grip and flinching when the cold metal against the warm skin of my shoulders. I stared up at the roof and thought about how surreal this was. Less than half an hour ago I had been fighting for my life, and now I’m home free.

I realised what I had been smelling for the past few minutes- or rather, what I _hadn’t_ been smelling. There was no stench of garbage in this air- it just smelt clean, and it was not a new smell in the air, but an old one. It cheered me up to think that I had escaped the smell of garbage, and that also meant that maybe, truly, this was real.

The doctor gave me a small tablet to suck on as I lay there while he hummed with his back to me and plugged in monitors and who knows whats around the operating table. The two other men were fiddling with things out of my line of sight but I knew they were still there because I could hear them rattling away at something and blabbing on about how so-and-so did this and so-and-so did that. The pill tasted sugary and sweet and was gone pretty soon, and when the doctor turned back to me he told me that it would allow him to plug me up to machines pain-free. He proceeded to do so, inserting a catheter into my forearm (after scrubbing the skin pink), all the while humming an inane tune and smiling, chatting away to me about the Games.

When all was ready, the doctor put a plastic mask around my nose and mouth and told me to stay still as he shone a torch into both my eyes. Then he nodded to one of his companions, I heard the sharp hiss of pressurised gas, and doc asked me politely to count the tiles on the roof.

I woke up some time later after counting all of two tiles (whatever they zapped me with sure did work fast). I was groggy and felt like my head was full of cotton, and I’m pretty sure I giggled at everything the doctor said to me. They told me we were halfway back to the Capitol and that they had successfully gotten rid of the blood pooling in my stomach and throat and cured me of the poison that had been slowly stripping my muscles of every layer of tissue.

I made faces and drooled all down my chin, grinning at them stupidly the entire time.

Champion material, am I right?

I was wigged out pretty hard (they said something about an accidental overdose- well, the words they used were “we expected he wouldn’t be such a lightweight”), so they decided it was easier to put me back under instead of trusting me to move myself around safely. It was a reasonable deduction seeing as at the time the only argument I could come up with was to blow raspberries whenever someone was speaking.

The next time I woke up I was more... sane. My tongue felt like a lump of sawdust in my mouth and I was desperately thirsty. I had another mask covering my mouth and nose and I had never breathed such sweet and pure oxygen before, but it was annoying and itchy so I raised a hand to try and take it off, only to find my arms had been washed and cleaned to perfection, right down to the perfect cuticles of my nails, which had been torn and bloody last time I'd checked.

My right arm was attached to several tubes and machines, and I tugged a little, revelling in the pinch of pain it caused when the wires pulled taught and metal tugged under my skin. I was distracted for a minute or so by my hands; I had a thin, tiny scar on my pointer finger where the cat had scratched me which would probably fade entirely in another few days, and the cut on my palm from the sword was just a pink horizontal line. Small scabs and cuts still dotted my arms but I didn’t look _bad_ or _unhealthy_. It looked normal.

My arms got tired after holding them up to stare at so I dropped them to look at the roof. A warm golden radiance was lighting the room from a source I couldn’t find, but I soon forgot about looking for it when I realised that the room I was in had no doors or windows. The tubes plugged into my right arm run into the wall behind the bed I was in, but other than that and a few vents high up near the roof, there were no openings. I wasn’t too worried though; if I had gotten in here, and if a _bed_ had gotten in here, there must be a way out.

I felt rested and content. My brain was still slightly hazy, and all I could really focus on was how comfy the bed was, how nice it would be to go back to sleep and what the heck they stuffed these pillows with because, if I had to guess, I was pretty sure it was clouds from Heaven itself. I didn’t have a lot of energy and even the thought of rolling over to find a more comfortable position made me wince at the contemplated effort.

I forgot about trying to get the mask off my face and figured I’d just go back to sleep. I didn’t think anyone would wake me if I did and, come on; being Champion had to have some benefits, right? I could count on one hand the amount of days where I had nothing to do after I had woken up. Back at the community home, Mrs Ferwere had us up and running by eight am, which, for a seventeen year old like myself, was not fun at all. Lately, when I woke up after sleeping I had to go go go because, y’know, I was in the Hunger Games. Right now, I had an opportunity to sleep a hopefully dreamless slumber with no interruptions.

I woke a little while later to the presence of a nurse. She was checking the monitors near my bed when I muttered sleepily as I transcended into consciousness and raised a hand to rub my eyes. Unfortunately for me I raised my right arm which was the one stuck with needles, and the sudden pinching sensation in my arm startled me into hyperawareness. I tried to sit up but I found a metal band around my waist preventing me from rising any more than a few inches and my breath was fogging the mask around my nose. I only noticed the nurse when she placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me gently but firmly back down onto the bed.

“Come now, honey,” she reprimanded me, pinning my shoulders until I stopped squirming. I stared at her with wide eyes, feeling vulnerable and frightened. “That better, isn’t it?” She told me after I stopped fighting her, letting me go but cocking an eyebrow at me to let me know that she would not be against using more force if I struggled again.

I watched her closely as she bustled around with a clipboard for a few minutes, her pink nurse’s scrubs rustling, before coming up to the bedside again. “Alright, sweetie, let’s see what we can do about these,” she nodded towards the tubes poking out of my arms and began taking them out. There was a strange pulling sensation as well as the occasional bite of pain but the ordeal wasn’t as bad as I assumed it would be. She met my gaze once whilst pulling out the first needle and I smiled at her because this was the first person I’d had one-on-one contact with since the Games that wasn’t trying to kill me. She smiled back and told me she had to leave the catheter in just in case the doctors needed to do anything else with it but gave me a mischievous smirk as she pulled the oxygen mask off my face.

“I think you can breathe just fine on your own now, Mr Alldrenn,” She patted my hand. I still hadn’t said anything to her but my mouth was so dry it felt like I would never say anything ever again. “Was there anything you needed before I go, sweetie?”

I swallowed and tried to speak but all that came out was a rasp of air. I licked my lips and frowned, determined. “Wa…ter?” Was all I got out but I think she managed to understand what I wanted. She smiled, dimples appearing in her chubby cheeks.

“Of course, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.”

While she was gone I tried sliding forwards or backwards out of the band around my waist but it was no use. My arms shook where I grounded them and I was too weak to move very far anyway. I retired to just lie there amongst the thin sheets and stare at the ceiling, regretting with a bone-deep feeling of terror that my memories were coming back to me like punches to the gut.

When the nurse returned I had my eyes screwed shut and my hand clenched in the sheets, mouth open so haggard breaths could puff in and out from between my lips. Horrible images were flashing behind my eyes and screams were ringing through my ears. “Mr Alldrenn?” The screaming stopped and a ghastly silence took its place. The nurse sounded startled but not panicked and I was glad one of us was calm as I pushed the heels of my feet into the mattress.

“Let me out,” I told her in a small voice, the words croaking and grating but audible.

“I can’t do that, sir.” Was her response. I swallowed thickly as a weight landed on my chest and I canted my waist against the bar restraining me.

“Let me out, _please_ ,” I begged, and I felt wetness run down from my eyes and I was almost sure it was blood.

“I’m sorry sir but I can’t do that,” Her voice wasn’t as warm before; it had transitioned to businesslike and logical. I heard something being set down and the nurse stepping to my side.

“No, no, you have to let me out,” I opened my eyes and gasped, more blood running from my eyes down my temples. “ _Please_ ,” I was sobbing now, the ‘please’ broken up into three syllables, my hands scrabbling around the sheets until they found the metal band, pushing against it with no result.

“Sir, I can’t-”

“ _Can’t you see the BLOOD_?” I shrieked, reaching for her, trying to _make_ her see, but she swiftly stepped away and walked to the intercom set in the wall. I wiped at the blood on my face until it was all over my hands but there was too much and it was running down my arms and onto the sheets and then some. I was sobbing loudly until something dribbled out of my mouth and I couldn’t believe it.

“You said you cured me,” I swallowed panicked breaths that were shallow and fast. I turned in the direction the nurse was in and yelled at her. “ _You told me you cured me_!” I could feel it now, the pain in my stomach, the poison stripping away layers and layers of tissue. They lied, the doctor hadn’t cured me, simply prolonged my death. What was this? Why was this happening? Was this some extended torture, some extended part of the Games?

I slumped back against the pillows, defeated, swamped in sheets that were stained red, trapped on a mattress by a simple metal band, destined to bleed out. It was ironic, wasn’t it? That I die on a mattress when my first kill had been by throwing Timmy onto one.

A long time later (or maybe no time at all) more doctors and nurses arrived. They shone torches in my eyes and asked me questions but I didn’t speak. I don’t know why they weren’t helping me. I was surrounded by blood and yet no one had done anything, not even wiped my face.

Eventually someone picked up my wrist and held it flaccid for a moment before dropping it back onto the bed with a muffled thump. I closed my eyes but otherwise didn’t react and I heard the final diagnosis that I had gone into shock. The catheter in my arm moved and I half-opened my eyes to see them attaching a Y–tube to it, one end leading to an IV bag, the other to a cut-off end where a nurse was inserting a needle filled with a thick fluid. I watched it mix with the liquid running down from the IV and into my arm and waited. Maybe I was too far gone and they were letting me die in my sleep. There was a clacking sound from near my ear and I felt someone gently lift my head so they could return the oxygen mask to my nose and lips. I shut my eyes fully again, prepared to die.

But all I did was sleep.


	23. Morning Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr Alldrenn?”
> 
> The darkness behind my eyes was receding as a gruff voice spoke. I struggled against the light, squinting my eyes together but as soon as I did I regretted it. I had just given myself away.
> 
> “Ah, Mr Alldrenn, glad to see you with us,” The deep voice remarked and I felt a large hand press against my forehead and then my throat. I gave up feigning sleep and opened my eyes to blink up at the yellow light shining from the roof.

“Mr Alldrenn?”

The darkness behind my eyes was receding as a gruff voice spoke to me. I struggled against the light, squinting my eyes together but as soon as I did I regretted it. I had just given myself away.

“Ah, Mr Alldrenn, glad to see you with us,” The deep voice remarked and I felt a large hand press against my forehead and then my throat. I gave up feigning sleep and opened my eyes to blink up at the yellow light shining from the roof. When the spots finally cleared from my vision I was left staring into the eyes of a huge man.

I immediately flinched away from the sheer size of him. He was leaning in too close, his eyebrows were really dark compared to his hair colour, and he was just… scary.

To his credit, once he saw my moment of fright he immediately straightened up and stepped away from my bedside. And once he was far enough away I felt a blush creep up my neck when I realised how foolish I had been. He was just a nurse, as his pale pink scrubs implied, but man, was he _built_.

My eyes snapped back to his face as he coughed. “Hi, Mr Alldrenn,” He nodded at me. “My name is Leo and I’ll be your nurse from now on.”

“Oh,” My brow furrowed, but a small part of my mind noticed my throat was only a little scratchy this time. “What happened to the other one? She was nice,”

“Uh,” Leo scratched his close-cropped blond hair. “She had to leave.”

“Why?” I knew I sounded like a whiny little kid but I was genuinely curious. I wouldn’t think someone would just up and leave and give up a chance to take care of a Champion.

“Well…” He drew out the word, looking at the ceiling. “She was kind of… forced to leave? She shouldn’t have really taken your IV out, or your oxygen mask off,”

It took me a second to register what he had said. The puff of startled air I released fogged the mask around my mouth and nose. “You fired her?” I spluttered.

“We let her go,” He was red in the face now, his freckles standing out more visibly, and still couldn’t look me in the eye. “I mean, it would have been a different story if you hadn’t had that panic attack, but seeing as you did… well, we just couldn’t let her make decisions like that…” He prattled on nervously but I zoned out and stared into space, thinking about what he just told me. Basically, the summed up, dumbed down version was that yesterday I freaked out and it cost a woman her job. Man, I really kick-started my life as a Victor, didn’t I?

“Oh,” I said, once he was done. He coughed, and we both endured an awkward silence for a minute before he resumed rustling around and checking my stats.

“Hey Leo?” I asked in a small voice. I felt sad and lonely and I think he realised that when he looked at me.

“Yeah, buddy? Uh, I mean, sir?" he straightened up.

“Can I have some water?” I asked timidly, clenching my fists in the sheets. I forced myself to remain calm and focus on the roof, taking in steady breaths. “And you can call me buddy or anything, if you want.” I added.

“Sure thing, champ,” I was confused when he approached me, pretty sure there was no water around, but he gently lifted the mask off my face. I my bewilderment deepened for a moment, pretty sure that this was what the other nurse was fired for, but then Leo bent and picked up another clear tube that had been clipped to the side of the bed and held it up to my line of sight.

“This is a cannula,” He said clearly and gently, showing me the length of tube. “Its job is similar to that of the oxygen mask but it frees your mouth. It can be a little uncomfortable though,” He shrugged, and then showed me how to put it on. I wiggled my nose around the prongs once it was in and it felt like a bug was crawling around the bottom of my nostrils. Leo looped the cannula around my ears and made sure it was in place before stepping back and making a camera with his hands, squinting with one eye open through the open centre of his fingers.

“Looking good, Mr Alldrenn,” He said, and I wanted to snort but I had the feeling the cannula would shoot out of my nose and be made redundant so I had to laugh through my mouth this time.

“Why can’t I just breathe on my own?” I asked.

“Well, you were struggling to breathe after the doctor siphoned the poison out of your throat. I guess your bronchi- which are in your lungs- were damaged, so we’re just helping you along a little,” Leo smiled at me. “We’d rather be safe than sorry,”

Leo then remembered that he said he’d get me water so he walked out of my line of sight, and I was too lazy to turn my head to follow him, but I heard him moving around and the creak of hinges. He returned with a blue and green plastic bottle in his hand with a sealed-in drinking straw poking out of the lid. He handed it to me with a smile and I tentatively put the straw in my dry mouth and sucked.

It was the first cool, clean water I had had since the Games had begun and it was Heaven. It must had been chilled in a refrigerator because it was cold on my tongue and it soothed my throat so perfectly I almost moaned. I shut my eyes and sucked it all down as fast as I could. Well, I tried to.

“Woah, slow down there, sir,” Leo put a huge hand on my wrist, and I stopped drinking for a second to look up at him. “Don’t want you drinking that too fast,”

I squinted my eyes at him and put my lips gently back around the straw, but drank slower this time, just to appease Leo. He nodded and sat in the chair next to my bed, kicking his long legs out in front of him and crossing them over. I noticed he was wearing some heavy boots under his nurse’s uniform and raised my eyebrows.

“Nice kicks,” I said around the straw, looking at his boots. He glanced at them too and snorted.

“I should probably be wearing the nurse’s sock/shoe things but they look terrible and feel even worse so I pulled some strings and now they let me wear my own shoes.” He explained, chuckling. Then he glanced at me and rolled his lips a little nervously. “Let’s just keep that between us, eh?” He nodded at me. I shrugged in return but felt a bubble of happiness form in my belly at the secret he had entrusted me with. I know it wasn’t much but it made me hide a smile as I slurped my water.

Leo didn’t force me to do anything that day. He gave me a plain white nightshirt (and underpants) to loll around in for the day, and I just laid in bed and he sat in his chair and we chatted or else shared a comfortable silence. At timed intervals he’d check my charts and monitors, mark things on a clipboard and he would periodically pull out a mobile telephone and poke at it, which he told me meant he was sending messages to the doctors on my condition. Every so often he’d say “Feeling alright, Mr Alldrenn?” so the periods of silence weren’t too long so I guess he was worried of letting me sink to deep into my own thoughts. I always answered with a chirpy “Aye-aye, captain,” to let him know I was feeling okay.

“They trust you a lot,” I remarked at one stage, sitting up now, since I promised not to try and get out of bed so Leo would remove the band around my waist. The only other time I had been allowed up (and the only time I was ever permitted out of bed) was to go to the bathroom just off the main room. The collar of the nightshirt was so wide it displayed my collarbone and the tops of my shoulders clearly, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Leo made an ‘mm’-ing sound from where his head was down, poking at his phone. A minute or two later he looked raised his head and looked distracted.

“Did you say something before, dude?” Leo tilted his head slightly to the side and wiggled his mouth from side to side in a gesture of confusion.

“I said, they must trust you a lot. You know,” I had to elaborate when his head just tilted more to the side after my statement. “They’re not even checking to see if you’ve left me to die,” I joked, but that just made him frown.

“There’re camera’s in here, you know,” Leo said, and I flinched, raising my shoulders in a futile attempt to hide. “Hey,” Leo stood and came to the bedside and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes from where they had been shut tight and relaxed my shoulders, but still remained tense in my torso. “What’s up?” His tone was gentle but slightly clinical, discerning my physical safety before my mental.

“I just-” I said in a small voice, “I’ve had enough of cameras watching me,”

Leo made a sympathetic face and nodded his head. “I understand, Mr Alldrenn, but they’re for your safety,”

I nodded sulkily and Leo went back to his seat, getting his mobile telephone out of his pocket as soon as he sat and started poking at it straight away. I stretched and lent back against the pillows, sniffing and wiggling my nose around the cannula. The inside of my nostrils felt cold and I wanted to rub them but that bloody cannula was stopping me, so I just sat in miserable silence.

Leo didn’t allow me to lose myself in my despondent thoughts though. For the rest of the day he’d chat with me or tell me jokes or he even gave me his mobile phone and taught me how to play a game on it. Though apparently I wasn’t very good and I shouldn’t ‘stab the screen’ but ‘tap it lightly’. Whatever. That game was rigged.

When Leo deemed it bedtime I had to undress again in case anything happened during the night, though I didn’t see me being one more layer covered as much of a changing factor, though I was allowed to keep my underpants on. Leo also forced me to put the oxygen mask back on, though I argued that I could totally breathe on my own. I wasn’t even sleepy, and I though I voiced that thought, I was told to shut up and go to sleep. Nicely, of course.

Leo left when I was only half-asleep, conversing quietly with the overnight nurse and then plodding out the door with his heavy boots, though he promised to be back tomorrow. I snuggled into my pillow and intentionally fogged up my oxygen mask with a sigh before closing my eyes.

 ---

I got to eat the next day. Leo came in and woke me up, carrying a tray of grey slop in a bowl with a small dish of berries and yoghurt next to it, as well as one glass of water and one smaller glass of orange juice. He nodded and dismissed the night-time nurse, who waved to me and left silently. I waved back but was preoccupied with surprise that I hadn’t even thought about eating yesterday, but when Leo swung a wooden board around from the side of the bed and set the tray across it, I wrinkled my nose.

“Why are you giving me gruel?” I asked, looking at the lumpy stuff in the bowl. Leo gave a bark of laughter and stuck a spoon into the gunk.

“It’s not gruel, dumby,” He twisted the spoon and scooped out a small portion. I had a horrified thought that he was going to spoon-feed me, but he just popped it in his own mouth and grinned. “It’s porridge. And it’s delicious.”

I squinted at him as he produced a second spoon from god-knows where and stuck it in the mush, this time leaving it in there. He leant towards me and took the oxygen mask off my face, letting me get a few lungfuls of warm air before forcing the cannula on me. He then gestured to the bowl in front of me, and I proceeded to give a haughty sniff of sterile oxygen before picking up a berry, rolling it between my fingers before popping it in my mouth.

Leo rolled his eyes from where he stood beside the bed and I grinned challengingly up at him, crunching on the seeds, one side of my mouth pulling up higher than the other in a sadistic grin.

“More for me,” He shrugged and put his spoon back in the porridge, stealing another tiny mouthful. I fished a seed out of my teeth with my tongue and contemplated, but as his spoon descended towards the bowl again, I hit it out of the way with my own and scooped my own serving of porridge, smiling smugly at him with my cheeks full of oat-y slop.

Leo, far from being upset or put-out, just laughed, put his spoon down at the top of the tray and went to sit in his chair, kicking is legs out like he did yesterday. “Remember to drink all the water,” He said and gestured to the glass on the tray and then folded his hands in his lap.

I didn’t get lunch but I wasn’t hungry so I was okay with that. Leo just sat another drink bottle (pink and orange today, but the same style as the one I had had yesterday) on the bedside table and every now and then told me to take a drink. We pretty much did the same thing as yesterday; I even got my nightshirt to put on again. I cheered when a nurse brought another tray of food in for my dinner, even though it was just a bowl of thin soup that tasted like vegetables and one small glass of water.

That night, after Leo had left and I had been asleep for a little while, I woke up just in time to rip my oxygen mask off and twist to the side before vomiting watery bile all over the pillow and mattress. Doctors were in the room in minutes, but in that time the night nurse had helped me sit up and given me a bucket to spit into whenever the barf rose in my throat. The doctors couldn’t really fix anything- I wasn’t suffering from an illness, but they did tell me that perhaps they should not have fed me two meals in one day. If I wasn’t sleepy and drooling acid-flavoured spit into the bucket, I would have quipped a snippy remark, but as it was I puked a little more, just to tell them what I thought.

When I had spewed myself out, I was given two glasses of water- one to rinse my mouth out with and the other to drink after. Once I’d finished my beverage, I had to stay awake for another half hour till they ‘determined if I was okay’- or while they changed my bed, including the smelly mattress. I was allowed to stand for a reason other than to use the bathroom, which was nice even if it was just to be led to Leo’s seat- after knowing him for just two days it was already Leo’s seat- where I had to wait while they changed the bed.

The sheets, though silken, were cold when I slipped back under the covers. I was sinking back into a sleepy stupor that came from an interrupted night when the doctors finally left, followed by those weird mute servants carrying the soiled bedding. My regular night nurse patted my hand after she helped me put the mask back on before proceeding to move off to sit in Leo’s chair. I also noticed some other nurses still in the room. But I found that made me feel safer more than anything so I slept peacefully.

 ---

I woke on my own the next morning to quiet music playing from a radio out of my immediate line of sight and Leo happily poking away on his mobile phone in his chair, foot tapping rhythmically to the chords of a guitar. My audible exhalation of a contented night’s rest caused him to abandon his game and grin at me, standing to check my monitors and charts.

“No wakeup call today?” I mumbled sleepily.

“I think you deserved a sleep in after the disturbance last night,” Leo said kindly. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Heard you caused quite a stir, Mr Alldrenn,” His gruff voice woke me up better than Mrs Ferwere’s screechy one did, and I snuffled as I rubbed my eyes rid of sleep with the back of my left hand.

“Mm,” I agreed, almost but not totally awake yet. “I guess…” I paused to smack my lips a few times and blinked in the golden glow of the room. “I guess that means I don’t get food today, do I?” I asked.

“Nope, sorry bud,” Leo popped the ‘p’ and hummed along to the song on the radio, shimmying his hips a little as he jigged to the beat. I huffed a laugh at him and he poked his tongue out at me before starting to sing along in a rough, homey voice that was out of key and had an edge of teasing to it so I knew he was doing it to make me laugh. His pale pink scrubs rustled and he bounced around my bed, bopping his head and singing words to match the drum beat and resonating guitar. He was marking things on the clipboard at the same time, and I had a feeling his handwriting was going to be worse than chickenscratch. But it was fun.

It was the best morning I had had in a long, _long_ time.

 ---

I was allowed to breathe on my own for six whole hours three days after the vomiting incident. Leo kept a close eye on the monitors but he didn’t have to worry, I did fine. I had to put the mask back on to sleep though, which I found reasonable. That was also day I got to have breakfast again, just a piece of thin, bland toast with nothing on it, which I nibbled at for an hour before finishing as Leo kept telling me to _eat slowly_.

The day after, I got to be without the mask for eight hours, and had another piece of toast for breakfast. The day after that, twelve hours plus breakfast and dinner. Soon I was spending every waking hour without any lung support and with two meals a day plus one snack, and ten days after the vomiting incident, the oxygen mask got put away for good. I was eating three very plain meals a day by then and I was unbound all the time, permitted to walk around the room whenever I wanted to stretch my legs.

Finally, the morning came where Leo told me I was set to go. He walked into the room with a large paper bag swinging by the handles on his forearm while his hands were supporting my breakfast tray. He told me the good news and I felt elated until he emptied the bag on the end of my bed.

Out slid a green greatcoat, one blue shirt, a pair of green pants, a heavy leather belt and thin socks balled together. I stared at the clothes with revulsion, glancing up when one of the mute servants entered carrying a slim rectangular box in one hand and a pair of boots in the other. He placed the boots on the ground by the bed and handed Leo the box, who accepted it with a playful smile and a nod of thanks.

I returned to staring at the clothes while Leo busied himself with setting up my breakfast tray, even though I had been doing that myself the last couple of days. I narrowed my eyes and appraised the pants most. I couldn’t picture wearing them without a healthy coating of blood stained up one side, though truthfully I don’t know why I ever had to wear that again.

“What’s up, doc?” Leo asked once he’d sat down in his chair, seeing that I was still glaring at the clothes.

“Why do I have to wear that?” I had planned to say it strongly but it came out small and pitiful. I grimaced, but I don’t think Leo noticed.

Leo shrugged. “All the Victors do,” He said calmly, swinging the tray around, causing me to sit back so it didn’t hit my chest. “It’s only until you get upstairs to your prep team,” I furiously chewed on my toast, remaining in stony silence.

After breakfast Leo asked if I wanted help getting dressed and I told him I wasn’t a baby and could do it myself. He surrendered with his hands up and began fiddling with the radio while I angrily stuffed my legs into the pants, noticing how much my legs had filled out, and that I even had a little pudge on my belly now. The smile slid off my face as I put the rest of my clothes on, but I just kept telling myself in my head that it was only for a short while.

“You’re collar’s twisted,” Leo said absently once I’d finished dressing. I tugged the coat’s collar a little, but Leo ended up tutting at me and walking over, adjusting it himself. I thanked him absently, wriggling my toes in the boots. “And you can’t go just yet,” He added.

“Why?” I sounded like a whiney brat even to my own ears but I didn’t care. The longer I spent in these clothes the closer I was to having a mental breakdown and streaking naked down the hall.

“’Cause I need to give you _this_ ,” Leo sounded triumphant so I took my eyes off the floor to see him holding the cardboard case that was brought in with my boots.

“Wow, a box.” I said drily. “You shouldn’t have,”

Leo snorted at me and shoved the box into my hands. I opened it to see my necklace nestled on a silken pillow, winking in the light of the room. “Oh,” I said, swallowing. I couldn’t just stop wearing this like I will with the other clothes I wore in the Games. This I had to keep. Until I gave it back to that orphan girl, anyway.

“Weren’t you missing it?” Leo asked, hearing the apathy in my voice. I looked up at him and, for the first time in thirteen days, I chewed my lip.

“Honestly, no,” I sighed and lifted it out of the box, raising it to eyelevel and watching the flat disc swing back and forth in front of my eyes. I saw Leo’s freckled cheeks puff out as he pouted at me.

“But it’s your District token!” His dark green eyes were confused and he sounded appalled at my apparent dishonour to my District. I guess he didn’t understand me as much as I originally thought.

“Yeah,” I didn’t know what I was even agreeing to as I clipped it in place behind my neck, though it seemed to make Leo a little happier. Well, he was still staring at me suspiciously, but at least he was no longer scrunching up his nose with hurt at the fact that oh, maybe I wasn’t happy with the fact that my District sent me to my death.

“Can I go now?” I deadpanned, not meeting Leo’s eyes as he appraised my face. I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye.

“I guess,” He answered and strode away from me, boots thudding on the floor. I sniffed and wiggled my lips from side to side in the quiet that followed as Leo stationed himself by the part of the wall that opened.

“Thanks,” I said, as he made the wall slide up, revealing the corridor beyond. I still hadn’t figured out how they did that.

I walked to his side. I felt I should say something to him. He had been a good person to me these past two weeks. I found myself catching my breath, my mouth pulling down at the corners. I would miss him.

“So,” I looked up at him. I was about the size of his neck. Leo was absolutely _huge_. He looked more the like the winner of the Hunger Games than I did, even if I had gained weight these last two weeks (not that I know how, I had eaten very little).

I met his inquisitive green eyes and dropped my gaze instantly to his freckled cheeks. “See you around?” spilled out of my mouth before I could think of something better to say, and I winced as soon as it fell from my lips.

“Yeah,” His voice was gruff. “See ya,”

It was embarrassment more than anything else that made me scuttle away, down the hall. I rounded a corner at the end of the hall and was musing over ways to sink straight through the floor when someone screamed.

I would’ve leapt away or ducked or punched something if arms didn’t wrap around my shoulders and restricted me from moving. I would have kicked and punched and tore my way out of there if it wasn’t for one thing.

The sickly sweet scent of fake bananas.

“Cameria!” I roared, tearing my arms out of her grip only so I could wrap them around her myself. I hugged her tightly, and I felt a Victor should maybe be a bit more calm and relaxed about seeing their Team after their Games, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Isaac!” She squealed in my arms, wrapping her hands around my waist now and clutching me tightly. I released her after a few seconds when I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, pulling me out of her arms and into a stronger pair.

“Nice to see you, kid,” Rowan laughed as he wound his own arms around my back for a few moments until he let me go, holding me at arm’s length to look me up and down. “Looking good, Ike,” He grinned, nodding his head in apparent satisfaction.

I tried to stay happy, I did. But as Celestial Shimmer hugged me as well and we all began traipsing towards the Tribute elevators I felt the smile slip off my face and the joy leak out of me like the air let out of a balloon. I didn’t feel sad, really, or angry. I just didn’t feel _anything_. It was gone, and I didn’t care, and I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

I got a proper meal at the table on floor seven, and I ate whatever carefully portioned food was placed in front of me. When we were done I wiped my face with my napkin and thanked the servants who took my plate but, as usual, they didn’t reply. They couldn’t. Of course they couldn’t. What was _wrong_ with me?

Rowan and Cameria left me to the mercy of my Prep Team and away we went.  I only felt a little relief when I got out of the Game clothes after they programmed me a shower, and, when I stepped out, they swooped upon me with a towel and a pair of nail files. I got to wear a robe while they plucked, shaved and painted my body. Celestial Shimmer had disappeared after pressing the shower buttons and had not returned, but I wasn’t fazed. She was probably putting my outfit together. More trees, I guessed.

The Triplets were chattering about the Games, but not in the way I expected. They weren’t talking about the events specifically, but more like where they were or what they were doing when they happened.

“I was eating dinner when I saw you got that _brute_ of a boy from District Four,” Barette nodded at me in a knowing way, and I felt like I was missing out on a joke. I was confused. Hadn’t I killed that boy in the early hours of the morning? And then I remembered the wonderful thing called replays and my bewilderment disappeared. “I almost dropped my roast pork!” He guffawed and returned to lathering my skin with moisturiser, and I felt a trickle of irritation flow through me. I had been starving, and they had been eating _roast pork_.

“Oh honey, when Marhkuhs died?” I cringed a while later when Shinette stopped what she was doing to my nails, file still touching the tip of my pointer finger’s nail, to look me in the eye. “I was in the shower. These two were _screaming_ from the lounge when you came on and I burst out, clad only in a _towel_!” She threw her head back and laughed before returning to my hand and I was glad she didn’t expect me to laugh as well.

I blocked out the chatter after that, though I did hum occasionally when they said something obtusely loud in case they expected me to reply. I zoned back into the conversation when Lizette was combing his hands through my hair (which was soft, shiny and curly by then), chewing his lip and gazing at the curls wistfully. I opened my mouth to say something but he just rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, _we can only trim it_ ,”

“No,” I sighed. “I was gonna say do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

I met his eyes in the mirror and his were wide. “You’re joking,” He said.

“Do I _look_ like I’m joking?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

The Triplets celebrated a little too much for my liking, but soon enough the shears came out and were humming close to my ears in no time. I shut my eyes and felt the release that came from hair dropping off my head.

Even when the shears were turned off and soft fingers were massaging my scalp, I kept my eyelids shut. This helped the Triplets do my makeup and finish their other ministrations on me. Finally, I heard the clacking of Celestial Shimmer’s heels and felt hands pulling my forearms, helping me stand. I was helped into my clothes and shoes and finally, after Celestial had tugged to life out of me, was I placed in front of the mirror and told to see how I looked.

I was in a white dress shirt, straight leg black pants that were just one size too tight, black shoes and a black vest with gold buttons on top of the shirt. I hadn’t received a jacket or blazer, and everything was fitted close to my body, hugging close to my skin. There were no trees, which I was totally okay with. I blinked and dragged my eyes towards my face, and stared.

I felt I should be angry, and I ran my hand over what was left of my hair, but I couldn’t muster up an inkling of emotion. “It’s called a Mohawk,” Barette touched the pads of his fingers to the shaved sides of my head. “Though, trust me, this is very tame,” He sniggered at the end like we were sharing a joke.

My hair had been trimmed so it wasn’t too long now, more waves of hair rather than curls, all coming from the part that was slightly to the left of my head. The brown tips had gone and it was fully inky black again, shining and soft. It was shaved on either side, about in line with where my eyebrows ended, and, honestly, it wasn’t the worst hairstyle I had ever seen.

They had done my makeup lightly- a thin dusting of foundation to ‘bronze the skin’, as the Triplets and jabbered at me, and a thin line of brown eyeliner around my eyes. My lips were red and full again, although not at quite the same level as the Interview night, thank god.

I saw Celestial Shimmer watching me with a pinched face from the mirror, as if gauging my reaction about my hair. I shrugged. “Okay,” I said, though it didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t muster up the will to care about it.

I mean, it was only hair, right?

Celestial told me we were done and took my arm, leading me to the elevator. The Triplets followed, chattering excitedly about how they had to run and change into their outfits. They left us and it was just Celestial and I, who just shoved me into the elevator, pressed the button and remained silent. I stared anywhere but at the column of numbers on the wall, trying my best not the think about the eleven empty floors around us.

“What’s wrong?” Celestial barked at me, and I flinched.

“Nothing,” I answered, trying to brush off my blanch from before. I was pleased to hear my voice was neutral, without tremor or emotion.

“Your mouth is all twisted and your hands are in fists.” She told me, and I turned my gaze on to her, hoping it was icy. I didn’t reply, and we reached the correct floor and left in silence, walking side by side, our footsteps echoing.

The chattering of the crowd was almost as loud as my heartbeat when we arrived under the stage. There were two Peacekeepers standing to the side, and Celestial forcefully parked me by the metal plate that would transport me upwards when I was introduced, and I figured she’d let go of my arms. When she didn’t I stared furiously at her, huffing a breath out of my nose.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked. Her grey eyes searched mine, a frown lining her forehead as she raised her voice above the talk of thousands above us. I didn’t answer, just stared back, leaning my head a little to the side, my mouth twisting the tiniest bit. I knew there was something wrong with me, but I didn’t care. “Why did you let them cut your hair? You wouldn’t let us _touch_ your hair before-”

“I let you trim it,” I corrected with a smirk, but I could tell it didn’t hold any emotion, and she all but snarled at me.

“What is _wrong_ , Isaac?” She hissed. “Why are you like this? You’re completely different! No smart-ass comments, no snarky remarks, you’re not even _speaking_! Why? You survived, didn’t you? You’re alive!”

I shut my eyes, and the memories resurfaced, a phantom twinging in my gut pulling me deeper into the Games. I felt the muscles in my jaw flutter and I licked my lips, swallowing hard, working my throat so the whimper that had closed the muscles didn’t escape. I opened my eyes again and took a breath, staring at Celestial as she waited for a reply.

“I’m not,” I said thickly, and she blinked. “Isaac died in that arena. I’m not that same guy anymore.” My hands were clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

“What?” She barked, and I knew she wouldn’t understand. I felt my mouth pull downwards and I rand a hand over it, a physical reminder to keep quiet. If I let anything out now, I would never be able to stop. “How did you-”

I wanted her to stop. “Hey!” I called, and twisted out of her grip to gesture at one of the Peacekeepers. “Can you escort Ms Shimmer upstairs? She’s going to miss her cue,”

“No-” Celestial started, but I just watched her get forcefully removed by the Peacekeeper. “Isaac, you need-” Was the last I heard, and the other Peacekeeper’s helmet was turned towards me. I shrugged at him.

A minute later I heard the tremendous applause and I could hear the anthem boom around the stage. That sound hadn’t haunted my nights for two weeks, but now it was all I could remember, and I felt a sick sensation in my stomach. I heard Emlyn Fuut greet the audience, and then my Prep Team in introduced. I looked at my hands and they were shaking slightly, so I clenched them back into fists, ignoring the pain. The first Peacekeeper returned and gestured for me to stand on the plate as Cameria was introduced, closely followed by Celestial Shimmer. Lastly was Rowan, for whom the crowd bellowed for, cheering and screaming and it was deafening to me, under the stage. My stomach felt like it was boiling, bubbling and churning, and I wanted to vomit. I clenched my jaw and stood straight, letting out a deep breath out of my mouth before breathing in again through my nose, and then out again. _Calm down, calm down_ , I chanted to myself.

In, out. _Calm down_.

In, out.

 _Calm down._ The voice in my head sounded like Marhkuhs’.

In, out. The crowd was so loud, humming like a hive full of bees above my head, ready to attack. _They’re human, Isaac_. _Just like us_.

 _Calm down, brother_.

In. Out.

 _She’s waiting_. Emlyn Fuut. She was waiting to introduce me. I could hear the crowd vibrating with excitement. _Are you coming, Isaac?_

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree…_

In. Out. In. Out. Control, I just needed control. I wasn’t scared. _I’m not scared_.

In…

Calm down, soldier. Though you may wish to be, you’re not dead quite yet.


End file.
